THE   GUEST   OF  QUESNAY 


Embrasse  moi,  Larrabeel    Embrasse  moil  "  she  cried 


Off  CSLBV  LIBRARY,  LOS  AHG1LES 

THE   GUEST   OF   QUESNAY 


BY 
BOOTH    TARKINGTON 

AUTHOB  OF 

MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE,   THE  GENTLEMAN 
FKUM  INDIANA,   ETC. 


ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    W.    J.     DUNCAN 


GARDEN  CITY        NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1912 


Copyright,  1908,  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 


Copyright,  1907,  1908,  by  The  Ridgway  Company 


TO 
OVID   BUTLER  JAMESON 


2138719 


THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 


CHAPTER    ONE 

THERE  are  old  Parisians  who  will  tell  you 
pompously  that  the  boulevards,  like  the  po- 
litical cafes,  have  ceased  to  exist,  but  this 
means  only  that  the  boulevards  no  longer  gossip  of 
Louis  Napoleon,  the  Return  of  the  Bourbons,  or  of 
General  Boulanger,  for  these  highways  are  always 
too  busily  stirring  with  present  movements  not  to 
be  forgetful  of  their  yesterdays.  In  the  shade  of 
the  buildings  and  awnings,  the  loungers,  the  look- 
ers-on in  Paris,  the  audience  of  the  boulevard,  sit 
at  little  tables,  sipping  coffee  from  long  glasses, 
drinking  absinthe  or  bright-coloured  strops,  and 
gazing  over  the  heads  of  throngs  afoot  at  others 
borne  along  through  the  sunshine  of  the  street  in 
carriages,  in  cabs,  in  glittering  automobiles,  or  high 
on  the  tops  of  omnibuses. 

From  all  the  continents  the  multitudes  come  to 
join  in  that  procession:  Americans,  tagged  with 
race-cards  and  intending  hilarious  disturbances ; 
puzzled  Americans,  worn  with  guide-book  plodding; 

[3] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

Chinese  princes  in  silk;  queer  Antillean  dandies  of 
swarthy  origin  and  fortune;  ruddy  English,  think- 
ing of  nothing;  pallid  English,  with  upper  teeth 
bared  and  eyes  hungrily  searching  for  sign-boards 
of  tea-rooms;  over-Europeanised  Japanese,  unpleas- 
antly immaculate;  burnoosed  sheiks  from  the  desert, 
and  red-fezzed  Semitic  peddlers ;  Italian  nobles  in 
English  tweeds;  Soudanese  negroes  swaggering  in 
frock  coats ;  slim  Spaniards,  squat  Turks,  travellers, 
idlers,  exiles,  fugitives,  sportsmen — all  the  tribes 
and  kinds  of  men  are  tributary  here  to  the  Parisian 
stream  which,  on  a  fair  day  in  spring,  already  over- 
flows the  banks  with  its  own  much-mingled  waters. 
Soberly  clad  burgesses,  bearded,  amiable,  and  in  no 
fatal  hurry;  well-kept  men  of  the  world  swirling  by 
in  miraculous  limousines ;  legless  cripples  flopping 
on  hands  and  leather  pads ;  thin- whiskered  students 
in  velveteen ;  walrus-moustached  veterans  in  broad- 
cloth ;  keen-faced  old  prelates ;  shabby  young  priests ; 
cavalrymen  in  casque  and  cuirass ;  workingmen 
turned  horse  and  harnessed  to  carts;  sidewalk  jest- 
ers, itinerant  vendors  of  questionable  wares;  shady 
loafers  dressed  to  resemble  gold-showering  America; 
motor-cyclists  in  leather;  hairy  musicians,  blue  gen- 

[4] 


Chapter  One 

darmes,  baggy  red  zouaves ;  purple-faced,  glazed- 
hatted,  scarlet-waistcoated,  cigarette-smoking  cab- 
men, calling  one  another  "  onions,"  "  camels,"  and 
names  even  more  terrible.  Women  prevalent  over  all 
the  concourse:  fair  women,  dark  women,  pretty 
women,  gilded  women,  haughty  women,  indifferent 
women,  friendly  women,  merry  women.  Fine  women 
in  fine  clothes ;  rich  women  in  fine  clothes ;  poor 
women  in  fine  clothes.  Worldly  old  women,  reclining 
befurred  in  electric  landaulettes ;  wordy  old  women 
hoydenishly  trundling  carts  full  of  flowers.  Won- 
derful automobile  women,  quick-glimpsed,  in  multi- 
ple veils  of  white  and  brown  and  sea-green.  Women 
in  rags  and  tags,  and  women  draped,  coifed,  and 
befrilled  in  the  delirium  of  maddened  poet-milliners 
and  the  hasheesh  dreams  of  ladies'  tailors. 

About  the  procession,  as  it  moves  interminably 
along  the  boulevard,  a  blue  haze  of  fine  dust  and 
burnt  gasoline  rises  into  the  sunshine  like  the  haze 
over  the  passages  to  an  amphitheatre  toward  which 
a  crowd  is  trampling;  and  through  this  the  multi- 
tudes seem  to  go  as  actors  passing  to  their  cues. 
Your  place  at  one  of  the  little  tables  upon  the  side- 
walk is  that  of  a  wayside  spectator:  and  as  the 

[5] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

performers  go  by,  in  some  measure  acting  or  look- 
ing their  parts  already,  as  if  in  preparation,  you 
guess  the  roles  they  play,  and  name  them  comedians, 
tragedians,  buffoons,  saints,  beauties,  sots,  knaves, 
gladiators,  acrobats,  dancers;  for  all  of  these  are 
there,  and  you  distinguish  the  principals  from  the 
unnumbered  supernumeraries  pressing  forward  to 
the  entrances.  So,  if  you  sit  at  the  little  tables  often 
enough — that  is,  if  you  become  an  amateur  boule- 
vardier — you  begin  to  recognise  the  transient  stars 
of  the  pageant,  those  to  whom  the  boulevard  allows 
a  dubious  and  fugitive  role  of  celebrity,  and  whom 
it  greets  with  a  slight  flutter:  the  turning  of  heads, 
a  murmur  of  comment,  and  the  incredulous  boule- 
vard smile,  which  seems  to  say:  "You  see?  Madame 
and  monsieur  passing  there — evidently  they  think 
we  still  believe  in  them ! " 

This  flutter  heralded  and  followed  the  passing  of 
a  white  touring-car  with  the  procession  one  after- 
noon just  before  the  Grand  Prix,  though  it  needed 
no  boulevard  celebrity  to  make  the  man  who  lolled 
in  the  tonneau  conspicuous.  Simply  for  that,  noto- 
riety was  superfluous ;  so  were  the  remarkable  size 
and  power  of  his  car ;  so  was  the  elaborate  touring- 

[6] 


Chapter  One 

costume  of  flannels  and  pongee  he  wore ;  so  was  even 
the  enamelled  presence  of  the  dancer  who  sat  beside 
him.  His  face  would  have  done  it  without  accessories. 

My  old  friend,  George  Ward,  and  I  had  met  for 
our  aperitif  at  the  Terrace  Larue,  by  the  Made- 
leine, when  the  white  automobile  came  snaking  its 
way  craftily  through  the  traffic.  Turning  in  to  pass 
a  victoria  on  the  wrong  side,  it  was  forced  down 
to  a  snail's  pace  near  the  curb  and  not  far  from 
our  table,  where  it  paused,  checked  by  a  blockade  at 
the  next  corner.  I  heard  Ward  utter  a  half-sup- 
pressed guttural  of  what  I  took  to  be  amazement, 
and  I  did  not  wonder. 

The  face  of  the  man  in  the  tonneau  detached  him 
to  the  spectator's  gaze  and  singled  him  out  of  the 
concourse  with  an  effect  almost  ludicrous  in  its  in- 
congruity. The  hair  was  dark,  lustrous  and  thick, 
the  forehead  broad  and  finely  modelled,  and  certain 
other  ruinous  vestiges  of  youth  and  good  looks  re- 
mained; but  whatever  the  features  might  once  have 
shown  of  honour,  worth,  or  kindly  semblance  had  dis- 
appeared beyond  all  tracing  in  a  blurred  distortion. 
The  lids  of  one  eye  were  discoloured  and  swollen 
almost  together;  other  traces  of  a  recent  battering 

[7] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

were  not  lacking,  nor  was  cosmetic  evidence  of  a 
heroic  struggle,  on  the  part  of  some  valet  of  infinite 
pains,  to  efface  them.  The  nose  lost  outline  in  the 
discolorations  of  the  puffed  cheeks ;  the  chin,  tufted 
with  a  small  imperial,  trembled  beneath  a  sagging, 
gray  lip.  And  that  this  bruised  and  dissipated  mask 
should  suffer  the  final  grotesque  touch,  it  was  deco- 
rated with  the  moustache  of  a  coquettish  marquis, 
the  ends  waxed  and  exquisitely  elevated. 

The  figure  was  fat,  but  loose  and  sprawling,  seem- 
ingly without  the  will  to  hold  itself  together;  in 
truth  the  man  appeared  to  be  almost  in  a  semi- 
stupor,  and,  contrasted  with  this  powdered  Silenus, 
even  the  woman  beside  him  gained  something  of  hu- 
man dignity.  At  least,  she  was  thoroughly  alive, 
bold,  predatory,  and  in  spite  of  the  gross  embon- 
point that  threatened  her,  still  savagely  graceful. 
A  purple  veil,  dotted  with  gold,  floated  about  her 
hat,  from  which  green-dyed  ostrich  plumes  cascaded 
down  across  a  cheek  enamelled  dead  white.  Her  hair 
was  plastered  in  blue-black  waves,  parted  low  on  the 
forehead;  her  lips  were  splashed  a  startling  carmine, 
the  eyelids  painted  blue;  and,  from  between  lashes 
gummed  into  little  spikes  of  blacking,  she  favoured 

[8] 


Chapter  One 

her  companion  with  a  glance  of  carelessly  simulated 
tenderness, — a  look  all  too  vividly  suggesting  the 
ghastly  calculations  of  a  cook  wheedling  a  chicken 
nearer  the  kitchen  door.  But  I  felt  no  great  pity 
for  the  victim. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  I  asked,  staring  at  the  man  in  the 
automobile  and  not  turning  toward  Ward. 

"  That  is  Mariana — *  la  bella  Mariana  la  Mursi- 
anaj  "  George  answered ;  "  — one  of  those  women 
who  come  to  Paris  from  the  tropics  to  form  them- 
selves on  the  legend  of  the  one  great  famous  and 
infamous  Spanish  dancer  who  died  a  long  while  ago. 
Mariana  did  very  well  for  a  time.  I've  heard  that 
the  revolutionary  societies  intend  striking  medals  in 
her  honour:  she's  done  worse  things  to  royalty  than 
all  the  anarchists  in  Europe!  But  her  great  days 
are  over:  she's  getting  old;  that  type  goes  to  pieces 
quickly,  once  it  begins  to  slump,  and  it  won't  be 
long  before  she'll  be  horribly  fat,  though  she's  still 
a  graceful  dancer.  She  danced  at  the  Folie  Rouge 
last  week." 

"  Thank  you,  George,"  I  said  gratefully.  "  I 
hope  you'll  point  out  the  Louvre  and  the  Eiffel 
Tower  to  me  some  day.  I  didn't  mean  Mariana." 

[9] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  What  did  you  mean  ?  " 

What  I  had  meant  was  so  obvious  that  I  turned 
to  my  friend  in  surprise.  He  was  nervously  tapping 
his  chin  with  the  handle  of  his  cane  and  staring  at 
the  white  automobile  with  very  grim  interest. 

"  I  meant  the  man  with  her,"  I  said. 

"Oh!"  He  laughed  sourly.  "That  carrion?" 

"  You  seem  to  be  an  acquaintance." 

"  Everybody  on  the  boulevard  knows  who  he  is," 
said  Ward  curtly,  paused,  and  laughed  again  with 
very  little  mirth.  "  So  do  you,"  he  continued ;  "  and 
as  for  my  acquaintance  with  him — yes,  I  had  once 
the  distinction  of  being  his  rival  in  a  small  way,  a 
way  so  small,  in  fact,  that  it  ended  in  his  becoming 
a  connection  of  mine  by  marriage.  He's  Larrabee 
Harman." 

That  was  a  name  somewhat  familiar  to  readers 
of  American  newspapers  even  before  its  bearer  was 
fairly  out  of  college.  The  publicity  it  then  attained 
(partly  due  to  young  Harman's  conspicuous  wealth) 
attached  to  some  youthful  exploits  not  without  a 
certain  wild  humour.  But  frolic  degenerated  into 
brawl  and  debauch:  what  had  been  scrapes  for  the 
boy  became  scandals  for  the  man;  and  he  gathered 
[10] 


Chapter  One 

a  more  and  more  unsavoury  reputation  until  its 
like  was  not  to  be  found  outside  a  penitentiary.  The 
crux  of  his  career  in  his  own  country  was  reached 
during  a  midnight  quarrel  in  Chicago  when  he  shot 
a  negro  gambler.  After  that,  the  negro  having  re- 
covered and  the  matter  being  somehow  arranged  so 
that  the  prosecution  was  dropped,  Harman's  wife 
left  him,  and  the  papers  recorded  her  application 
for  a  divorce.  She  was  George  Ward's  second  cous- 
in, the  daughter  of  a  Baltimore  clergyman;  a  belle 
in  a  season  and  town  of  belles,  and  a  delightful, 
headstrong  creature,  from  all  accounts.  She  had 
made  a  runaway  match  of  it  with  Harman  three 
years  before,  their  affair  having  been  earnestly 
opposed  by  all  her  relatives — especially  by  poor 
George,  who  came  over  to  Paris  just  after  the  wed- 
ding in  a  miserable  frame  of  mind. 

The  Chicago  exploit  was  by  no  means  the  end 
of  Harman's  notoriety.  Evading  an  effort  (on  the 
part  of  an  aunt,  I  believe)  to  get  him  locked  up 
safely  in  a  "  sanitarium,"  he  began  a  trip  round 
the  world  with  an  orgy  which  continued  from  San 
Francisco  to  Bangkok,  where,  in  the  company  of 
some  congenial  fellow  travellers,  he  interfered  in  a 

[11] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

native  ceremonial  with  the  result  that  one  of  his 
companions  was  drowned.  Proceeding,  he  was  re- 
ported to  be  in  serious  trouble  at  Constantinople, 
the  result  of  an  inquisitiveness  little  appreciated  by 
Orientals.  The  State  Department,  bestirring  itself, 
saved  him  from  a  very  real  peril,  and  he  continued 
his  journey.  In  Rome  he  was  rescued  with  difficulty 
from  a  street  mob  that  unreasonably  refused  to  ac- 
cept intoxication  as  an  excuse  for  his  riding  down 
a  child  on  his  way  to  the  hunt.  Later,  during  the 
winter  just  past,  we  had  been  hearing  from  Monte 
Carlo  of  his  disastrous  plunges  at  that  most  imbe- 
cile of  all  games,  roulette. 

Every  event,  no  matter  how  trifling,  in  this  man's 
pitiful  career  had  been  recorded  in  the  American 
newspapers  with  an  elaboration  which,  for  my  part, 
I  found  infuriatingly  tiresome.  I  have  lived  in  Paris 
so  long  that  I  am  afraid  to  go  home:  I  have  too 
little  to  show  for  my  years  of  pottering  with  paint 
and  canvas,  and  I  have  grown  timid  about  all  the 
changes  that  have  crept  in  at  home.  I  do  not  know 
the  "  new  men,"  I  do  not  know  how  they  would  use 
me,  and  fear  they  might  make  no  place  for  me;  and 
so  I  fit  myself  more  closely  into  the  little  grooves 
[13] 


Chapter  One 

I  have  worn  for  myself,  and  resign  myself  to  stay. 
But  I  am  no  "  expatriate."  I  know  there  is  a  feeling 
at  home  against  us  who  remain  over  here  to  do  our 
work,  but  in  most  instances  it  is  a  prejudice  which 
springs  from  a  misunderstanding.  I  think  the  qual- 
ity of  patriotism  in  those  of  us  who  "  didn't  go  home 
in  time  "  is  almost  pathetically  deep  and  real,  and, 
like  many  another  oldish  fellow  in  my  position,  I 
try  to  keep  as  close  to  things  at  home  as  I  can. 
All  of  my  old  friends  gradually  ceased  to  write  to 
me,  but  I  still  take  three  home  newspapers,  trying 
to  follow  the  people  I  knew  and  the  things  that 
happen ;  and  the  ubiquity  of  so  worthless  a  creature 
as  Larrabce  Harman  in  the  columns  I  dredged  for 
real  news  had  long  been  a  point  of  irritation  to  this 
present  exile.  Not  only  that:  he  had  usurped  space 
in  the  Continental  papers,  and  of  late  my  favourite 
Parisian  journal  had  served  him  to  me  with  my 
morning  coffee,  only  hinting  his  name,  but  offering 
him  with  that  gracious  satire  characteristic  of  the 
Gallic  journalist  writing  of  anything  American.  And 
so  this  grotesque  wreck  of  a  man  was  well  known 
to  the  boulevard — one  of  its  sights.  That  was  to 
be  perceived  by  the  flutter  he  caused,  by  the  turning 
[13] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

of  heads  in  his  direction,  and  the  low  laughter  of 
the  people  at  the  little  tables.  Three  or  four  in  the 
rear  ranks  had  risen  to  their  feet  to  get  a  better 
look  at  him  and  his  companion. 

Some  one  behind  us  chuckled  aloud.  "  They  say 
Mariana  beats  him." 

"  Evidently !  " 

The  dancer  was  aware  of  the  flutter,  and  called 
Harman's  attention  to  it  with  a  touch  upon  his 
arm  and  a  laugh  and  a  nod  of  her  violent  plumage. 

At  that  he  seemed  to  rouse  himself  somewhat:  his 
head  rolled  heavily  over  upon  his  shoulder,  the  lids 
lifted  a  little  from  the  red-shot  eyes,  showing  a 
strange  pride  when  his  gaze  fell  upon  the  many 
staring  faces. 

Then,  as  the  procession  moved  again  and  the  white 
automobile  with  it,  the  sottish  mouth  widened  in  a 
smile  of  dull  and  cynical  contempt:  the  look  of  a 
half-poisoned  Augustan  borne  down  through  the 
crowds  from  the  Palatine  after  supping  with  Ca- 
ligula. 

Ward  pulled  my  sleeve. 

"  Come,"  he  said,   "  let  us   go  over  to   the  Lux- 
embourg gardens  where  the  air  is  cleaner." 
[14] 


CHAPTER    TWO 

WARD  is  a  portrait-painter,  and  in  the 
matter  of  vogue  there  seem  to  be  no 
pinnacles  left  for  him  to  surmount.  I 
think  he  has  painted  most  of  the  very  rich  women 
of  fashion   who  have  come  to  Paris   of  late  years, 
and  he  has  become  so  prosperous,  has  such  a  polite 
celebrity,  and  his  opinions  upon  art  are  so  conclu- 
sively quoted,  that  the  friendship  of  some  of  us  who 
started  with  him  has  been  dangerously  strained. 

He  lives  a  well-ordered  life;  he  has  always  led 
that  kind  of  life.  Even  in  his  student  days  when 
I  first  knew  him,  I  do  not  remember  an  occasion 
upon  which  the  principal  of  a  New  England  high- 
school  would  have  criticised  his  conduct.  And  yet 
I  never  heard  anyone  call  him  a  prig;  and,  so  far 
as  I  know,  no  one  was  ever  so  stupid  as  to  think 
him  one.  He  was  a  quiet,  good-looking,  well-dressed 
boy,  and  he  matured  into  a  somewhat  reserved,  well- 
poised  man,  of  impressive  distinction  in  appearance 
[15] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

and  manner.  He  has  always  been  well  tended  and 
cared  for  by  women ;  in  his  student  days  his  mother 
lived  with  him ;  his  sister,  Miss  Elizabeth,  looks  after 
him  now.  She  came  with  him  when  he  returned  to 
Paris  after  his  disappointment  in  the  unfortunate 
Harman  affair,  and  she  took  charge  of  all  his  busi- 
ness— as  well  as  his  social — arrangements  (she  has 
been  accused  of  a  theory  that  the  two  things  may 
be  happily  combined),  making  him  lease  a  house  in 
an  expensively  modish  quarter  near  the  Avenue  du 
Bois  de  Boulogne.  Miss  Elizabeth  is  an  instinctively 
fashionable  woman,  practical  withal,  and  to  her  mind 
success  should  be  not  only  respectable  but  "  smart." 
She  does  not  speak  of  the  "  right  bank  "  and  the 
"  left  bank  "  of  the  Seine ;  she  calls  them  the  "  right 
bank  "  and  the  "  wrong  bank."  And  yet,  though  she 
removed  George  (her  word  is  "  rescued ")  from 
many  of  his  old  associations  with  Montparnasse, 
she  warmly  encouraged  my  friendship  with  him — - 
yea,  in  spite  of  my  living  so  deep  in  the  wrong 
bank  that  the  first  time  he  brought  her  to  my 
studio,  she  declared  she  hadn't  seen  anything 
so  like  Bring-the-child-to-the-old-hag's-cellar-at-mid- 
night  since  her  childhood.  She  is  a  handsome  woman, 
[16] 


Chapter  Two 

large,  and  of  a  fine,  high  colour;  her  manner  is 
gaily  dictatorial,  and  she  and  I  got  along  very 
well  together. 

Probably  she  appreciated  my  going  to  some  pains 
with  the  clothes  I  wore  when  I  went  to  their  house. 
My  visits  there  were  infrequent,  not  because  I  had 
any  fear  of  wearing  out  a  welcome,  but  on  account 
of  Miss  Elizabeth's  "  day,"  when  I  could  see  noth- 
ing of  George  for  the  crowd  of  lionising  women  and 
time-wasters  about  him.  Her  "  day  "  was  a  dread 
of  mine;  I  could  seldom  remember  which  day  it 
was,  and  when  I  did  she  had  a  way  of  shifting 
it  so  that  I  was  fatally  sure  to  run  into  it — 
to  my  misery,  for,  beginning  with  those  primordial 
indignities  suffered  in  youth,  when  I  was  scrubbed 
with  a  handkerchief  outside  the  parlour  door  as  a 
preliminary  to  polite  usages,  my  childhood's,  man- 
hood's prayer  has  been:  From  all  such  days,  Good 
Lord,  deliver  me! 

It  was  George's  habit  to  come  much  oftener  to 
see  me.  He  always  really  liked  the  sort  of  society 
his  sister  had  brought  about  him;  but  now  and  then 
there  were  intervals  when  it  wore  on  him  a  little, 
I  think.  Sometimes  he  came  for  me  in  his  auto- 
[17] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

mobile  and  we  would  make  a  mild  excursion  to  break- 
fast in  the  country ;  and  that  is  what  happened  one 
morning  about  three  weeks  after  the  day  when  we 
had  sought  pure  air  in  the  Luxembourg  gardens. 

We  drove  out  through  the  Bois  and  by  Suresnes, 
striking  into  a  roundabout  road  to  Versailles  be- 
yond St.  Cloud.  It  was  June,  a  dustless  and  balmy 
noon,  the  air  thinly  gilded  by  a  faint  haze,  and  I 
know  few  things  pleasanter  than  that  road  on  a 
fair  day  of  the  early  summer  and  no  sweeter  way 
to  course  it  than  in  an  open  car;  though  I  must 
not  be  giving  myself  out  for  a  "  motorist " — I  have 
not  even  the  right  cap.  I  am  usually  nervous  in 
big  machines,  too;  but  Ward  has  never  caught  the 
speed  mania  and  holds  a  strange  power  over  his 
chauffeur;  so  we  rolled  along  peacefully,  not  madly, 
and  smoked  (like  the  car)  in  hasteless  content. 

"  After  all,"  said  George,  with  a  placid  wave  of 
the  hand,  "  I  sometimes  wish  that  the  landscape  had 
called  me.  You  outdoor  men  have  all  the  health  and 
pleasure  of  living  in  the  open,  and  as  for  the  work — • 
oh !  you  fellows  think  you  work,  but  you  don't  know 
what  it  means." 

"  No  ?  "  I  said,  and  smiled  as  I  always  meanly  do 
[18] 


Chapter  Two 

when  George  "  talks  art."  He  was  silent  for  a  few 
moments  and  then  said  irritably, 

"Well,  at  least  you  can't  deny  that  the  academic 
crowd  can  DRAW  !  " 

Never  having  denied  it,  though  he  had  challenged 
me  in  the  same  way  perhaps  a  thousand  times,  I 
refused  to  deny  it  now;  whereupon  he  returned  to 
his  theme :  "  Landscape  is  about  as  simple  as  a  stage 
fight;  two  up,  two  down,  cross  and  repeat.  Take 
that  ahead  of  us.  Could  anything  be  simpler  to 
paint?" 

He  indicated  the  white  road  running  before  us 
between  open  fields  to  a  curve,  where  it  descended 
to  pass  beneath  an  old  stone  culvert.  Beyond,  stood 
a  thick  grove  with  a  clear  sky  flickering  among  the 
branches.  An  old  peasant  woman  was  pushing  a 
heavy  cart  round  the  curve,  a  scarlet  handkerchief 
knotted  about  her  head. 

"  You  think  it's  easy?  "  I  asked. 

"  Easy !  Two  hours  ought  to  do  it  as  well  as  it 
could  be  done — at  least,  the  way  you  fellows  do  it ! " 
He  clenched  his  fingers  as  if  upon  the  handle  of  a 
house-painter's  brush.  "  Slap,  dash — there's  your 
road."  He  paddled  the  air  with  the  imaginary  brush 
[19] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

as  though  painting  the  side  of  a  barn.  "  Swish, 
swash — there  go  your  fields  and  your  stone  bridge. 
Fit!  Speck!  And  there's  your  old  woman,  her  red 
handkerchief,  and  what  your  dealer  will  probably 
call  '  the  human  interest/  all  complete.  Squirt  the 
edges  of  your  foliage  in  with  a  blow-pipe.  Throw  a 
cup  of  tea  over  the  whole,  and  there's  your  ha/e. 
Call  it  *  The  Golden  Road,'  or  *  The  Bath  of  Sun- 
light,' or  *  Quiet  Noon.'  Then  you'll  probably  get 
a  criticism  beginning,  *  Few  indeed  have  more  in- 
tangibly detained  upon  canvas  so  poetic  a  quality 
of  sentiment  as  this  sterling  landscapist,  who  in 
Number  136  has  most  ethereally  expressed  the  pro- 
found silence  of  evening  on  an  English  moor.  The 
solemn  hush,  the  brooding  quiet,  the  homeward 
ploughman '  " 

He  was  interrupted  by  an  outrageous  uproar, 
the  grisly  scream  of  a  siren  and  the  cannonade  of 
a  powerful  exhaust,  as  a  great  white  touring-car 
swung  round  us  from  behind  at  a  speed  that  sick- 
ened me  to  see,  and,  snorting  thunder,  passed  us 
"  as  if  we  had  been  standing  still." 

It  hurtled  like  a  comet  down  the  curve  and  we 
were  instantly  choking  in  its  swirling  tail  of  dust. 
[20] 


Chapter  Two 

"  Seventy  miles  an  hour !  "  gasped  George,  swab- 
bing at  his  eyes.  "  Those  are  the  fellows  that  get 
into  the  pa —  Oh,  Lord !  There  they  go !  " 

Swinging  out  to  pass  us  and  then  sweeping  in 
upon  the  reverse  curve  to  clear  the  narrow  arch  of 
the  culvert  were  too  much  for  the  white  car;  and 
through  the  dust  we  saw  it  rock  dangerously.  In 
the  middle  of  the  road,  ten  feet  from  the  culvert, 
the  old  woman  struggled  frantically  to  get  her  cart 
out  of  the  way.  The  howl  of  the  siren  frightened 
her  perhaps,  for  she  lost  her  head  and  went  to  the 
wrong  side.  Then  the  shriek  of  the  machine  drowned 
the  human  scream  as  the  automobile  struck. 

The  shock  of  contact  was  muffled.  But  the  mass 
of  machinery  hoisted  itself  in  the  air  as  if  it  had 
a  life  of  its  own  and  had  been  stung  into  sudden  mad- 
ness. It  was  horrible  to  see,  and  so  grotesque  that 
a  long-forgotten  memory  of  my  boyhood  leaped  in- 
stantaneously into  my  mind,  a  recollection  of  the 
evolutions  performed  by  a  Newfoundland  dog  that 
rooted  under  a  board  walk  and  found  a  hive  of  wild 
bees. 

The  great  machine  left  the  road  for  the  fields 
on  the  right,  reared,  fell,  leaped  against  the  stone 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

side  of  the  culvert,  apparently  trying  to  climb  it, 
stood  straight  on  end,  whirled  backward  in  a  half- 
somersault,  crashed  over  on  its  side,  flashed  with 
flame  and  explosion,  and  lay  hidden  under  a  cloud 
of  dust  and  smoke. 

Ward's  driver  slammed  down  his  accelerator, 
sent  us  spinning  round  the  curve,  and  the  next 
moment,  throwing  on  his  brakes,  halted  sharply  at 
the  culvert. 

The  fabric  of  the  road  was  so  torn  and  distorted 
one  might  have  thought  a  steam  dredge  had  begun 
work  there,  but  the  fragments  of  wreckage  were 
oddly  isolated  and  inconspicuous.  The  peasant's 
cart,  tossed  into  a  clump  of  weeds,  rested  on  its  side, 
the  spokes  of  a  rimless  wheel  slowly  revolving  on  the 
hub  uppermost.  Some  tools  were  strewn  in  a  semi- 
circular trail  in  the  dust;  a  pair  of  smashed  gog- 
gles crunched  beneath  my  foot  as  I  sprang  out  of 
Ward's  car,  and  a  big  brass  lamp  had  fallen  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  crumpled  like  waste  paper. 
Beside  it  lay  a  gold  rouge  box. 

The  old  woman  had  somehow  saved  herself — or 
perhaps  her  saint  had  helped  her — for  she  was  sit- 
ting in  the  grass  by  the  roadside,  wailing  hysteri- 
[22] 


Chapter  Two 

cally  and  quite  unhurt.  The  body  of  a  man  lay  in 
a  heap  beneath  the  stone  archway,  and  from  his 
clothes  I  guessed  that  he  had  been  the  driver  of 
the  white  car.  I  say  "  had  been  "  because  there  were 
reasons  for  needing  no  second  glance  to  comprehend 
that  the  man  was  dead.  Nevertheless,  I  knelt  beside 
him  and  placed  my  hand  upon  his  breast  to  see  if 
his  heart  still  beat.  Afterward  I  concluded  that  I 
did  this  because  I  had  seen  it  done  upon  the  stage, 
or  had  read  of  it  in  stories ;  and  even  at  the  time 
I  realised  that  it  was  a  silly  thing  for  me  to  be 
doing. 

Ward,  meanwhile,  proved  more  practical.  He  was 
dragging  a  woman  out  of  the  suffocating  smoke  and 
dust  that  shrouded  the  wreck,  and  after  a  moment 
I  went  to  help  him  carry  her  into  the  fresh  air, 
where  George  put  his  coat  under  her  head.  Her 
hat  had  been  forced  forward  over  her  face  and  held 
there  by  the  twisting  of  a  system  of  veils  she  wore; 
and  we  had  some  difficulty  in  unravelling  this;  but 
she  was  very  much  alive,  as  a  series  of  muffled  im- 
precations testified,  leading  us  to  conclude  that  her 
sufferings  were  more  profoundly  of  rage  than  of 
pain.  Finally  she  pushed  our  hands  angrily  aside 
[23] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

and  completed  the  untanglement  herself,  revealing 
the  scratched  and  smeared  face  of  Mariana,  the 
dancer. 

"  Cornichon!  Chameau!  Fond  du  bain! "  she 
gasped,  tears  of  anger  starting  from  her  eyes.  She 
tried  to  rise  before  we  could  help  her,  but  dropped 
back  with  a  scream. 

"  Oh,  the  pain! "  she  cried.  "  That  imbecile!  If  he 
has  let  me  break  my  leg!  A  pretty  dancer  I  should 
be!  I  hope  he  is  killed." 

One  of  the  singularities  of  motoring  on  the  main- 
travelled  roads  near  Paris  is  the  prevalence  of  cars 
containing  physicians  and  surgeons.  Whether  it  be 
testimony  to  the  opportunism,  to  the  sporting  pro- 
clivities, or  to  the  prosperity  of  gentlemen  of  those 
professions,  I  do  not  know,  but  it  is  a  fact  that  I 
have  never  heard  of  an  accident  (and  in  the  season 
there  is  an  accident  every  day)  on  one  of  these 
roads  when  a  doctor  in  an  automobile  was  not  almost 
immediately  a  chance  arrival,  and  fortunately  our 
case  offered  no  exception  to  this  rule.  Another  auto- 
mobile had  already  come  up  and  the  occupants  were 
hastily  alighting.  Ward  shouted  to  the  foremost 
to  go  for  a  doctor. 

[24] 


Chapter  Two 

"  I  am  a  doctor,"  the  man  answered,  advancing 
and  kneeling  quickly  by  the  dancer.  "And  you — you 
may  be  of  help  yonder." 

We  turned  toward  the  ruined  car  where  Ward's 
driver  was  shouting  for  us. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  called  Ward  as  we  ran  toward  him. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  replied,  "  there  is  some  one  under 
the  tonneau  here !  " 

The  smoke  had  cleared  a  little,  though  a  rivulet 
of  burning  gasoline  ran  from  the  wreck  to  a  pool 
of  flame  it  was  feeding  in  the  road.  The  front  cush- 
ions and  woodwork  had  caught  fire  and  a  couple  of 
labourers,  panting  with  the  run  across  the  fields, 
were  vainly  belabouring  the  flames  with  brushwood. 
From  beneath  the  overturned  tonneau  projected 
the  lower  part  of  a  man's  leg,  clad  in  a  brown  puttee 
and  a  russet  shoe.  Ward's  driver  had  brought  his 
tools ;  had  j  acked  up  the  car  as  high  as  possible ; 
but  was  still  unable  to  release  the  imprisoned 
body. 

"  I  have  seized  that  foot  and  pulled  with  all  my 

strength,"  he  said,  "  and  I  cannot  make  him  move 

one  centimetre.  It  is  necessary  that  as  many  people 

as  possible  lay  hold  of  the  car  on  the  side  away  from 

[25] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

the  fire  and  all  lift  together.  Yes,"  he  added,  "  and 
very  soon !  " 

Some  carters  had  come  from  the  road  and  one  of 
them  lay  full  length  on  the  ground  peering  beneath 
the  wreck.  "  It  is  the  head  of  monsieur,"  explained 
this  one ;  "  it  is  the  head  of  monsieur  which  is  fas- 
tened under  there." 

"  Eh,  but  you  are  wiser  than  Clemenceau !  "  said 
the  chauffeur.  "  Get  up,  my  ancient,  and  you  there, 
with  the  brushwood,  let  the  fire  go  for  a  moment  and 
help,  when  I  say  the  word.  And  you,  monsieur,"  he 
turned  to  Ward,  "  if  you  please,  will  you  pull  with 
me  upon  the  ankle  here  at  the  right  moment  ?  " 

The  carters,  the  labourers,  the  men  from  the 
other  automobile,  and  I  laid  hold  of  the  car  together. 

"  Now,  then,  messieurs,  LIFT  !  " 

Stifled  with  the  gasoline  smoke,  we  obeyed.  One 
or  two  hands  were  scorched  and  our  eyes  smarted 
blindingly,  but  we  gave  a  mighty  heave,  and  felt  the 
car  rising. 

"Well  done!"  cried  the  chauffeur.  "Well  done! 
But  a  little  more!  The  smallest  fraction — HA!  It  is 
finished,  messieurs !  " 

We  staggered  back,  coughing  and  wiping  our 
[26] 


Chapter  Two 

eyes.  For  a  minute  or  two  I  could  not  see  at  all, 
and  was  busy  with  a  handkerchief. 

Ward  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"  Do  you  know  who  it  is  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  I  answered. 

When  I  could  see  again,  I  found  that  I  was  looking 
almost  straight  down  into  the  upturned  face  of  Lar- 
rabee  Harman,  and  I  cannot  better  express  what  this 
man  had  come  to  be,  and  what  the  degradation  of 
his  life  had  written  upon  him,  than  by  saying  that 
the  dreadful  thing  I  looked  upon  now  was  no  more 
horrible  a  sight  than  the  face  I  had  seen,  fresh  from 
the  valet  and  smiling  in  ugly  pride  at  the  starers, 
as  he  passed  the  terrace  of  Larue  on  the  day  before 
the  Grand  Prix. 

We  helped  to  carry  him  to  the  doctor's  car,  and 
to  lift  the  dancer  into  Ward's,  and  to  get  both  of 
them  out  again  at  the  hospital  at  Versailles,  where 
they  were  taken.  Then,  with  no  need  to  ask  each 
other  if  we  should  abandon  our  plan  to  breakfast 
in  the  country,  we  turned  toward  Paris,  and  rolled 
along  almost  to  the  barriers  in  silence. 

"  Did  it  seem  to  you,"  said  George  finally,  "  that 
[27] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

a  man  so  frightfully  injured  could  have  any  chance 
of  getting  well?  " 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  I  thought  he  was  dying  as  we 
carried  him  into  the  hospital." 

"  So  did  I.  The  top  of  his  head  seemed  all  crushed 
in —  Whew !  "  He  broke  off,  shivering,  and  wiped 
his  brow.  After  a  pause  he  added  thoughtfully,  "  It 
will  be  a  great  thing  for  Louise." 

Louise  was  the  name  of  his  second  cousin,  the 
girl  who  had  done  battle  with  all  her  family  and 
then  run  away  from  them  to  be  Larrabee  Harman's 
wife.  Remembering  the  stir  that  her  application  for 
divorce  had  made,  I  did  not  understand  how  Har- 
man's  death  could  benefit  her,  unless  George  had 
some  reason  to  believe  that  he  had  made  a  will  in  her 
favour.  However,  the  remark  had  been  made  more  to 
himself  than  to  me  and  I  did  not  respond. 

The  morning  papers  flared  once  more  with  the 
name  of  Larrabee  Harman,  and  we  read  that  there 
was  "  no  hope  of  his  surviving."  Ironic  phrase !  There 
was  not  a  soul  on  earth  that  day  who  could  have 
hoped  for  his  recovery,  or  who — for  his  sake — cared 
two  straws  whether  he  lived  or  died.  And  the  dancer 
[28] 


Chapter  Two 

had  been  right;  one  of  her  legs  was  badly  broken: 
she  would  never  dance  again. 

Evening  papers  reported  that  Harman  was  "  lin- 
gering." He  was  lingering  the  next  day.  He  was 
lingering  the  next  week,  and  the  end  of  a  month  saw 
him  still  "  lingering."  Then  I  went  down  to  Capri, 
where — for  he  had  been  after  all  the  merest  episode 
to  me — I  was  pleased  to  forget  all  about  him. 


[29] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

AiREAT     many   people   keep    their    friends 
in  mind  by  writing  to  them,  but  more  do 
not;  and  Ward  and  I  belong  to  the  ma- 
jority.  After  my  departure  from  Paris  I  had  but 
one  missive  from  him,  a  short  note,  written  at  the 
request  of  his  sister,  asking  me  to  be  on  the  lookout 
for  Italian  earrings,  to  add  to  her  collection  of  old 
jewels.  So,  from  time  to  time,  I  sent  her  what  I  could 
find  about  Capri  or  in  Naples,  and  she  responded 
with  neat  little  letters  of  acknowledgment. 

Two  years  I  stayed  on  Capri,  eating  the  lotus 
which  grows  on  that  happy  island,  and  painting 
very  little — only  enough,  indeed,  to  be  remembered  at 
the  Salon  and  not  so  much  as  knowing  how  kindly 
or  unkindly  they  hung  my  pictures  there.  But  even 
on  Capri,  people  sometimes  hear  the  call  of  Paris 
and  wish  to  be  in  that  unending  movement:  to  hear 
the  multitudinous  rumble,  to  watch  the  procession 
from  a  cafe  terrace  and  to  dine  at  Foyot's.  So  there 
[30] 


Chapter  Three 

came  at  last  a  fine  day  when  I,  knowing  that  the 
horse-chestnuts  were  in  bloom  along  the  Champs  Ely- 
sees,  threw  my  rope-soled  shoes  to  a  beggar,  packed 
a  rusty  trunk,  and  was  off  for  the  banks  of  the 
Seine. 

My  arrival — just  the  drive  from  the  Gare  de  Lyon 
to  my  studio — was  like  the  shock  of  surf  on  a  bath- 
er's breast. 

The  stir  and  life,  the  cheerful  energy  of  the  streets, 
put  stir  and  life  and  cheerful  energy  into  me.  I  felt 
the  itch  to  work  again,  to  be  at  it,  at  it  in  earnest 
— to  lose  no  hour  of  daylight,  and  to  paint  better 
than  I  had  painted! 

Paris  having  given  me  this  impetus,  I  dared  not 
tempt  her  further,  nor  allow  the  edge  of  my  eager- 
ness time  to  blunt;  therefore,  at  the  end  of  a  fort- 
night, I  went  over  into  Normandy  and  deposited 
that  rusty  trunk  of  mine  in  a  corner  of  the  summer 
pavilion  in  the  courtyard  of  Madame  Brossard's 
inn,  Les  Trois  Pigeons,  in  a  woodland  neighbourhood 
that  is  there.  Here  I  had  painted  through  a  pro- 
lific summer  of  my  youth,  and  I  was  glad  to  find — 
as  I  had  hoped — nothing  changed ;  for  the  place  was 
dear  to  me.  Madame  Brossard  (dark,  thin,  demure 
[31] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

as  of  yore,  a  fine-looking  woman  with  a  fine  manner 
and  much  the  flavour  of  old  Norman  portraits)  gave 
me  a  pleasant  welcome,  remembering  me  readily  but 
without  surprise,  while  Amed£e,  the  antique  servi- 
tor, cackled  over  me  and  was  as  proud  of  my  advent 
as  if  I  had  been  a  new  egg  and  he  had  laid  me.  The 
simile  is  grotesque;  but  Amedee  is  the  most  henlike 
waiter  in  France. 

He  is  a  white-haired,  fat  old  fellow,  always  well- 
shaved;  as  neat  as  a  billiard-ball.  In  the  daytime, 
when  he  is  partly  porter,  he  wears  a  black  tie,  a 
gray  waistcoat  broadly  striped  with  scarlet,  and, 
from  waist  to  feet,  a  white  apron  like  a  skirt,  and 
so  competently  encircling  that  his  trousers  are  of 
mere  conventionality  and  no  real  necessity ;  but  after 
six  o'clock  (becoming  altogether  a  maitre  d'hotel) 
he  is  clad  as  any  other  formal  gentleman.  At  all 
times  he  wears  a  fresh  table-cloth  over  his  arm,  keep- 
ing an  exaggerated  pile  of  them  ready  at  hand  on 
a  ledge  in  one  of  the  little  bowers  of  the  courtyard, 
so  that  he  may  never  be  shamed  by  getting  caught 
without  one. 

His  conception  of  life  is  that  all  worthy  persons 
were  created  as  receptacles  for  food  and  drink;  and 
[32] 


Chapter  Three 

five  minutes  after  my  arrival  he  had  me  seated  (in 
spite  of  some  meek  protests)  in  a  wicker  chair  with 
a  pitcher  of  the  right  Three  Pigeons  cider  on  the 
table  before  me,  while  he  subtly  dictated  what  man- 
ner of  dinner  I  should  eat.  For  this  interval  Amedee's 
exuberance  was  sobered  and  his  badinage  dismissed 
as  being  mere  garniture,  the  questions  now  before  us 
concerning  grave  and  inward  matters.  His  sugges- 
tions were  deferential  but  insistent ;  his  manner  was 
that  of  a  prime  minister  who  goes  through  the  form 
of  convincing  the  sovereign.  He  greeted  each  of  his 
own  decisions  with  a  very  loud  "  Bien!  "  as  if  start- 
led by  the  brilliancy  of  my  selections,  and,  the  menu 
being  concluded,  exploded  a  whole  volley  of  "  Biens  " 
and  set  off  violently  to  instruct  old  Gaston,  the  cook. 
That  is  Amedee's  way;  he  always  starts  violently 
for  anywhere  he  means  to  go.  He  is  a  little  lame  and 
his  progress  more  or  less  sidelong,  but  if  you  call 
him,  or  new  guests  arrive  at  the  inn,  or  he  receives 
an  order  from  Madame  Brossard,  he  gives  the  effect 
of  running  by  a  sudden  movement  of  the  whole  body 
like  that  of  a  man  about  to  run,  and  moves  off  using 
the  gestures  of  a  man  who  is  running;  after  which 
he  proceeds  to  his  destination  at  an  exquisite  leisure. 
[33] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

Remembering  this  old  habit  of  his,  it  was  with  joy 
that  I  noted  his  headlong  departure.  Some  ten  feet 
of  his  progress  accomplished,  he  halted  (for  no  pur- 
pose but  to  scratch  his  head  the  more  luxuriously)  ; 
next,  strayed  from  the  path  !:o  contemplate  a  rose- 
bush, and,  selecting  a  leaf  with  careful  deliberation, 
placed  it  in  his  mouth  and  continued  meditatively 
upon  his  way  to  the  kitchen. 

I  chuckled  within  me;  it  was  good  to  be  back  at 
Madame  Brossard's. 

The  courtyard  was  more  a  garden ;  bright  with 
rows  of  flowers  in  formal  little  beds  and  blossoming 
up  from  big  green  tubs,  from  red  jars,  and  also 
from  two  brightly  painted  wheel-barrows.  A  long 
arbour  offered  a  shelter  of  vines  for  those  who  might 
choose  to  dine,  breakfast,  or  lounge  beneath,  and, 
here  and  there  among  the  shrubberies,  you  might 
come  upon  a  latticed  bower,  thatched  with  straw. 
My  own  pavilion  (half  bedroom,  half  studio)  was 
set  in  the  midst  of  all  and  had  a  small  porch  of  its 
own  with  a  rich  curtain  of  climbing  honeysuckle  for 
a  screen  from  the  rest  of  the  courtyard. 

The  inn  itself  is  gray  with  age,  the  roof  sagging 
pleasantly  here  and  there;  and  an  old  wooden  gal- 
[34] 


Chapter  Three 

lery  runs  the  length  of  each  wing,  the  guest-cham- 
bers of  the  upper  story  opening  upon  it  like  the 
deck-rooms  of  a  steamer,  with  boxes  of  tulips  and 
hyacinths  along  the  gallery  railings  and  window 
ledges  for  the  gayest  of  border-lines. 

Beyond  the  great  open  archway,  which  gives  en- 
trance to  the  courtyard,  lies  the  quiet  country  road; 
passing  this,  my  eyes  followed  the  wide  sweep  of 
poppy-sprinkled  fields  to  a  line  of  low  green  hills; 
and  there  was  the  edge  of  the  forest  sheltering  those 
woodland  interiors  which  I  had  long  ago  tried  to 
paint,  and  where  I  should  be  at  work  to-morrow. 

In  the  course  of  time,  and  well  within  the  bright 
twilight,  Amedee  spread  the  crisp  white  cloth  and 
served  me  at  a  table  on  my  pavilion  porch.  He 
feigned  anxiety  lest  I  should  find  certain  dishes 
(those  which  he  knew  were  most  delectable)  not  to 
my  taste,  but  was  obviously  so  distended  with  fat- 
uous pride  over  the  whole  meal  that  it  became  a 
temptation  to  denounce  at  least  some  trifling  sauce 
or  garnishment;  nevertheless,  so  much  mendacity 
proved  beyond  me  and  I  spared  him  and  my  own  con- 
science. This  puffed-uppedness  of  his  was  to  be  ob- 
served only  in  his  expression  of  manner,  for  during 
[35] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

the  consumption  of  food  it  was  his  worthy  custom 
to  practise  a  ceremonious,  nay,  a  reverential,  hush, 
and  he  never  offered  (or  approved)  conversation 
until  he  had  prepared  the  salad.  That  accomplished, 
however,  and  the  water  bubbling  in  the  coffee  ma- 
chine, he  readily  favoured  me  with  a  discourse  on  the- 
decline  in  glory  of  Les  Trois  Pigeons. 

"  Monsieur,  it  is  the  automobiles ;  they  have  done 
it.  Formerly,  as  when  monsieur  was  here,  the  painters 
came  from  Paris.  They  would  come  in  the  spring 
and  would  stay  until  the  autumn  rains.  What  busy 
times  and  what  drolleries!  Ah,  it  was  gay  in  those 
days !  Monsieur  remembers  well.  Ha,  Ha !  But  now, 
I  think,  the  automobiles  have  frightened  away  the 
painters;  at  least  they  do  not  come  any  more.  And 
the  automobiles  themselves;  they  come  sometimes 
for  lunch,  a  few,  but  they  love  better  the  seashore, 
and  we  are  just  close  enough  to  be  too  far 
away.  Those  automobiles,  they  love  the  big  new 
hotels  and  the  casinos  with  roulette.  They  eat  ha- 
stily, gulp  down  a  liqueur,  and  pouf!  off  they  rush 
for  Trouville,  for  Houlgate — for  heaven  knows 
where!  And  even  the  automobiles  do  not  come  so 
frequently  as  they  did.  Our  road  used  to  be  the 
[36] 


Chapter  Three 

best  from  Lisieux  to  Beuzeval,  but  now  the  maps 
recommend  another.  They  pass  us  by,  and  yet  yon- 
der— only  a  few  kilometres — is  the  coast  with  its 
thousands.  We  are  near  the  world  but  out  of  it, 
monsieur." 

He  poured  my  coffee;  dropped  a  lump  of  sugar 
from  the  tongs  with  a  benevolent  gesture — "  One 
lump:  always  the  same.  Monsieur  sees  that  I  re- 
member well,  ha  ?  " — and  the  twilight  having  fallen, 
he  lit  two  orange-shaded  candles  and  my  cigar  with 
the  same  match.  The  night  was  so  quiet  that  the 
candle-lights  burned  as  steadily  as  flames  in  a  globe, 
yet  the  air  was  spiced  with  a  cool  fragrance,  and 
through  the  honeysuckle  leaves  above  me  I  saw,  as  I 
leaned  back  in  my  wicker  chair,  a  glimmer  of  kindly 
stars. 

"  Very  comfortably  out  of  the  world,  Amedee," 
I  said.  "  It  seems  to  me  I  have  it  all  to  myself." 

"  Unhappily,  yes !  "  he  exclaimed ;  then  excused 
himself,  chuckling.  "  I  should  have  said  that  we 
should  be  happier  if  we  had  many  like  monsieur. 
But  it  is  early  in  the  season  to  despair.  Then,  too, 
our  best  suite  is  already  engaged." 

"By  whom?" 

[37] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Two  men  of  science  who  arrive  next  week.  One 
is  a  great  man.  Madame  Brossard  is  pleased  that 
he  is  coming  to  Les  Trois  Pigeons,  but  I  tell  her 
it  is  only  natural.  He  comes  now  for  the  first  time 
because  he  likes  the  quiet,  but  he  will  come  again, 
like  monsieur,  because  he  has  been  here  before.  That 
is  what  I  always  say :  *  Any  one  who  has  been  here 
must  come  again.'  The  problem  is  only  to  get  them 
to  come  the  first  time.  Truly ! " 

"  Who  is  the  great  man,  Amedee  ?  " 

"  Ah !  A  distinguished  professor  of  science.  Tru- 

iy." 

"What  science?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  But  he  is  a  member  of  the  Insti- 
tute. Monsieur  must  have  heard  of  that  great  Pro- 
fessor Keredec?  " 

"  The  name  is  known.  Who  is  the  other  ?  " 

"  A  friend  of  his.  I  do  not  know.  All  the  upper 
floor  of  the  east  wing  they  have  taken — the  Grande 
Suite — those  two  and  their  valet-de-chambre.  That 
is  truly  the  way  in  modern  times — the  philosophers 
are  rich  men." 

"  Yes,"  I  sighed.  "  Only  the  painters  are  poor 
nowadays." 

[38] 


Chapter  Three 

"  Ha,  ha,  monsieur !  "  Amedee  laughed  cunningly. 

"  It  was  always  easy  to  see  that  monsieur  only 
amuses  himself  with  his  painting." 

"  Thank  you,  Amedee,"  I  responded.  "  I  have 
amused  other  people  with  it  too,  I  fear." 

"  Oh,  without  doubt !  "  he  agreed  graciously,  as 
he  folded  the  cloth.  I  have  always  tried  to  believe 
that  it  was  not  so  much  my  pictures  as  the  fact 
that  I  paid  my  bills  the  day  they  were  presented 
which  convinced  everybody  about  Les  Trois  Pig- 
eons that  I  was  an  amateur.  But  I  never  became 
happily  enough  settled  in  this  opinion  to  i''sk  press- 
ing an  investigation ;  and  it  was  a  relief  that  Amedee 
changed  the  subject. 

"  Monsieur  remembers  the  Chateau  de  Quesnay 
— at  the  crest  of  the  hill  on  the  road  north  of 
Dives?" 

"  I   remember." 

"  It  is  occupied  this  season  by  some  rich  Ameri- 
cans." 

"  How  do  you  know  they  are   rich  ?  " 

"  Dieu  de  Dieu! "  The  old  fellow  appealed  to 
heaven.  "  But  they  are  Americans !  " 

"  And  therefore  millionaires.  Perfectly,  Amedee." 
[39] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Perfectly,  monsieur.  Perhaps  monsieur  knows 
them." 

"  Yes,  I  know  them." 

"  Truly ! "  He  affected  dejection.  "  And  poor 
Madame  Brossard  thought  monsieur  had  returned 
to  our  old  hotel  because  he  liked  it,  and  remembered 
our  wine  of  Beaune  and  the  good  beds  and  old 
Gaston's  cooking ! " 

"  Do  not  weep,  Amedee,"  I  said.  "  I  have  come 
to  paint;  not  because  I  know  the  people  who  have 
taken  Quesnay."  And  I  added :  "  I  may  not  see  them 
at  all." 

In  truth  I  thought  that  very  probable.  Miss  Eliz- 
abeth had  mentioned  in  one  of  her  notes  that  Ward 
had  leased  Quesnay,  but  I  had  not  sought  quarters 
at  Les  Trots  Pigeons  because  it  stood  within  walk- 
ing distance  of  the  chateau.  In  my  industrious  frame 
of  mind  that  circumstance  seemed  almost  a  draw- 
back. Miss  Elizabeth,  ever  hospitable  to  those  whom 
she  noticed  at  all,  would  be  doubly  so  in  the  country, 
as  people  always  are;  and  I  wanted  all  my  time  to 
myself — no  very  selfish  wish  rince  my  time  was  not 
conceivably  of  value  to  any  one  else.  I  thought  it 
wise  to  leave  any  encounter  with  the  lady  to  chance, 
[40] 


Chapter  Three 

and  as  the  by-paths  of  the  countryside  were  many 
and  intricate,  I  intended,  without  ungallantry,  to 
render  the  chance  remote.  George  himself  had  just 
sailed  on  a  business  trip  to  America,  as  I  knew  from 
her  last  missive ;  and  until  his  return,  I  should  put 
in  all  my  time  at  painting  and  nothing  else,  though 
I  liked  his  sister,  as  I  have  said,  and  thought  of  her 
— often. 

Amedee  doubted  my  sincerity,  however,  for  he 
laughed  incredulously. 

"Eh,  well,  monsieur  enjoys  saying  it!" 

"  Certainly.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  say  what  one 
means." 

"  But  monsieur  could  not  mean  it.  Monsieur  will 
call  at  the  chateau  in  the  morning  " — the  complacent 
varlet  prophesied — "  as  early  as  it  will  be  polite. 
I  am  sure  of  that.  Monsieur  is  not  at  all  an  old 
man;  no,  not  yet!  Even  if  he  were,  aha!  no  one 
could  possess  the  friendship  of  that  wonderful 
Madame  d'Armand  and  remain  away  from  the 
chateau." 

"Madame  d'Armand?"  I  said.  "That  is  not  the 
name.  You  mean  Mademoiselle  Ward." 

"  No,  no ! "  He  shook  his  head  and  his  fat  cheeks 
[41] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

bulged  with  a  smile  which  I  believe  he  intended 
to  express  a  respectful  roguishness.  "  Mademoiselle 
Ward  "  (he  pronounced  it  "  Ware  ")  "  is  magnifi- 
cent; every  one  must  fly  to  obey  when  she  opens 
her  mouth.  If  she  did  not  like  the  ocean  there 
below  the  chateau,  the  ocean  would  have  to 
move!  It  needs  only  a  glance  to  perceive  that 
Mademoiselle  Ward  is  a  great  lady — but  Madame 
d'Armand!  AHA  ! "  He  rolled  his  round  eyes  to  an 
effect  of  unspeakable  admiration,  and  with  a  gesture 
indicated  that  he  would  have  kissed  his  hand  to 
the  stars,  had  that  been  properly  reverential  to  Ma- 
dame d'Armand.  "  But  monsieur  knows  very  well 
for  himself !  " 

"  Monsieur  knows  that  you  are  very  confusing — 
even  for  a  maitre  d'hotel.  We  were  speaking  of  the 
present  chatelaine  of  Quesnay,  Mademoiselle  Ward.  I 
have  never  heard  of  Madame  d'Armand." 

"  Monsieur  is  serious  ?  " 

"  Truly !  "  I  answered,  making  bold  to  quote  his 
shibboleth. 

"  Then  monsieur  has  truly  much  to  live  for. 
Truly ! "  he  chuckled  openly,  convinced  that  he 
had  obtained  a  marked  advantage  in  a  conflict 
[42] 


Chapter  Three 

of  wits,  shaking  his  big  head  from  side  to  side  with 
an  exasperating  air  of  knowingness.  "  Ah,  truly ! 
When  that  lady  drives  by,  some  day,  in  the  car- 
riage from  the  chateau — eh?  Then  monsieur  will 
see  how  much  he  has  to  live  for.  Truly,  truly, 
truly !  " 

He  had  cleared  the  table,  and  now,  with  a  final 
explosion  of  the  word  which  gave  him  such  immoder- 
ate satisfaction,  he  lifted  the  tray  and  made  one 
of  his  precipitate  departures. 

"  Amedee,"  I  said,  as  he  slackened  down  to  his 
sidelong  leisure. 

"Monsieur?" 

"Who  is   Madame  d'Armand?  " 

"  A  guest  of  Mademoiselle  Ward  at  Quesnay.  In 
fact,  she  is  in  charge  of  the  chateau,  since  Ma- 
demoiselle Ward  is,  for  the  time,  away." 

"  Is  she.a  Frenchwoman?  " 

"  It  seems  not.  In  fact,  she  is  an  American,  though 
she  dresses  with  so  much  of  taste.  Ah,  Madame  Bros- 
sard  admits  it  and  Madame  Brossard  knows  the 
art  of  dressing,  for  she  spends  a  week  of  every 
winter  in  Rouen — and  besides  there  is  Trouville 
itself  only  some  kilometres  distant.  Madame  Bros- 
[43] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

sard  says  that  Mademoiselle  Ward  dresses  with  rich- 
ness and  splendour  and  Madame  d'Armand  with 
economy,  but  beauty.  Those  were  the  words  used  by 
Madame  Brossard.  Truly." 

*'  Madame  d'Armand's  name  is  French,"  I  ob- 
served. 

"  Yes,  that  is  true,"  said  Amedee  thoughtfully. 
"  No  one  can  deny  it ;  it  is  a  French  name."  He 
rested  the  tray  upon  a  stump  near  by  and  scratched 
his  head.  "  I  do  not  understand  how  that  can  be," 
he  continued  slowly.  "  Jean  Ferret,  who  is  chief  gar- 
dener at  the  chateau,  is  an  acquaintance  of  mine.  We 
sometimes  have  a  cup  of  cider  at  Pere  Baudry's, 
a  kilometre  down  the  road  from  here ;  and  Jean 
Ferret  has  told  me  that  she  is  an  American.  And  yet, 
as  you  say,  monsieur,  the  name  is  French.  Perhaps 
she  is  French  after  all." 

"  I  believe,"  said  I,  "  that  if  I  struggled  a  few 
days  over  this  puzzle,  I  might  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  Madame  d'Armand  is  an  American  lady  who  has 
married  a  Frenchman." 

The  old  man  uttered  an  exclamation  of  triumph. 

"  Ha !  without  doubt !  Truly  she  must  be  an  Amer- 
ican lady  who  has  married  a  Frenchman.  Monsieur 
[44] 


Chapter  Three 

has  already  solved  the  puzzle.  Truly,  truly !  "  And 
he  trulied  himself  across  the  darkness,  to  emerge  in 
the  light  of  the  open  door  of  the  kitchen  with  the 
word  still  rumbling  in  his  throat. 

Now  for  a  time  there  came  the  clinking  of  dishes, 
sounds  as  of  pans  and  kettles  being  scoured,  the 
rolling  gutturals  of  old  Gaston,  the  cook,  and  the 
treble  pipings  of  young  "  Glouglou,"  his  grandchild 
and  scullion.  After  a  while  the  oblong  of  light  from 
the  kitchen  door  disappeared;  the  voices  departed; 
the  stillness  of  the  dark  descended,  and  with  it  that 
unreasonable  sense  of  pathos  which  night  in  the 
country  brings  to  the  heart  of  a  wanderer.  Then, 
out  of  the  lonely  silence,  there  issued  a  strange, 
incongruous  sound  as  an  execrable  voice  essayed  to 
produce  the  semblance  of  an  air  odiously  familiar 
about  the  streets  of  Paris  some  three  years  past,  and 
I  became  aware  of  a  smell  of  some  dreadful  thing 
burning.  Beneath  the  arbour  I  perceived  a  glowing 
spark  which  seemed  to  bear  a  certain  relation  to 
an  oval  whitish  patch  suggesting  the  front  of  a 
shirt.  It  was  Amedee,  at  ease,  smoking  his  cigarette 
after  the  day's  work  and  convinced  that  he  was 
singing. 

[45] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Pour  quj'finisse 
Mon  service 

Au  Tonkin  je  suis  parti 

Ah  !  quel  beau  pays,  mesdames  ! 
C'est  Fparadis  des  p 'tiles  jemmes  !  " 

I  rose  from  the  chair  on  my  little  porch,  to  go 
to  bed;  but  I  was  reminded  of  something,  and  called 
to  him. 

"  Monsieur?  "  his  voice  came  briskly. 

"  How  often  do  you  see  your  friend,  Jean  Ferret, 
the  gardener  of  Quesnay?  " 

"  Frequently,  monsieur.  To-morrow  morning  I 
could  easily  carry  a  message  if " 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  do  not  wish.  And  you 
may  as  well  not  mention  me  at  all  when  you  meet 
him." 

"  It  is  understood.  Perfectly." 

"  If  it  is  well  understood,  there  will  be  a  beau- 
tiful present  for  a  good  maitre  d'hotel  some 
day." 

"  Thank  you,  monsieur." 

"  Good  night,  Amedee." 

"  Good  night,  monsieur." 

•  •  •  •  • 

[46] 


Chapter  Three 

Falling  to  sleep  has  always  been  an  intricate  mat- 
ter with  me:  I  liken  it  to  a  nightly  adventure  in  an 
enchanted  palace.  Weary-limbed  and  with  burning 
eyelids,  after  long  waiting  in  the  outer  court  of 
wakefulness,  I  enter  a  dim,  cool  antechamber  where 
the  heavy  garment  of  the  body  is  left  behind  and 
where,  perhaps,  some  acquaintance  or  friend  greets 
me  with  a  familiar  speech  or  a  bit  of  nonsense — or  an 
unseen  orchestra  may  play  music  that  I  know.  From 
here  I  go  into  a  spacious  apartment  where  the  air 
and  light  are  of  a  fine  clarity,  for  it  is  the  hall  of 
revelations,  and  in  it  the  secrets  of  secrets  are  told, 
mysteries  are  resolved,  perplexities  cleared  up,  and 
sometimes  I  learn  what  to  do  about  a  picture  that 
has  bothered  me.  This  is  where  I  would  linger, 
for  beyond  it  I  walk  among  crowding  fantasies, 
delusions,  terrors  and  shame,  to  a  curtain  of  dark- 
ness where  they  take  my  memory  from  me,  and  I 
know  nothing  of  my  own  adventures  until  I  am 
pushed  out  of  a  secret  door  into  the  morning  sun- 
light. Amedee  was  the  acquaintance  who  met  me  in 
the  antechamber  to-night.  He  remarked  that  Madame 
d'Armand  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the 
world,  and  vanished.  And  in  the  hall  of  revelations 
[47] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

I  thought  that  I  found  a  statue  of  her — but  it  was 
veiled.  I  wished  to  remove  the  veil,  but  a  passing 
stranger  stopped  and  told  me  laughingly  that  the  veil 
was  all  that  would  ever  be  revealed  of  her  to  me — 
of  her,  or  any  other  woman! 


[48] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

1WAS  up  with  the  birds  in  the  morning;  had 
my  breakfast  with  them — a  very  drowsy-eyed 
Amedee  assisting — and  made  off  for  the  forest 
to  get  the  sunrise  through  the  branches,  a  pack  on 
my  back  and  three  sandwiches  for  lunch  in  my  pocket. 
I  returned  only  with  the  failing  light  of  evening, 
cheerfully  tired  and  ready  for  a  fine  dinner  and 
an  early  bed,  both  of  which  the  good  inn  supplied. 
It  was  my  daily  programme ;  a  healthy  life  "  far  from 
the  world,"  as  Amedee  said,  and  I  was  sorry  when 
the  serpent  entered  and  disturbed  it,  though  he 
was  my  own.  He  is  a  pet  of  mine;  has  been  with 
me  since  my  childhood.  He  leaves  me  when  I  live 
alone,  for  he  loves  company,  but  returns  whenever 
my  kind  are  about  me.  There  are  many  names 
for  snakes  of  his  breed,  but,  to  deal  charitably 
with  myself,  I  call  mine  Interest-In-Other-People's- 
Affairs. 

One  evening  I  returned  to  find  a  big  van  from 
[49] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

Dives,  the  nearest  railway  station,  drawn  up  in  the 
courtyard  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  leading  to  the 
gallery,  and  all  of  the  people  of  the  inn,  from  Ma- 
dame Brossard  (who  directed)  to  Glouglou  (who 
madly  attempted  the  heaviest  pieces),  busily  in- 
stalling trunks,  bags,  and  packing-cases  in  the  suite 
engaged  for  the  "  great  man  of  science "  on  the 
second  floor  of  the  east  wing  of  the  building.  Neither 
the  great  man  nor  his  companion  was  to  be  seen, 
however,  both  having  retired  to  their  rooms  im- 
mediately upon  their  arrival — so  Amedee  informed 
me,  as  he  wiped  his  brow  after  staggering  up 
the  steps  under  a  load  of  books  wrapped  in 
sacking. 

I  made  my  evening  ablutions,  removing  a  Joseph's 
coat  of  dust  and  paint;  and  came  forth  from  my 
pavilion,  hoping  that  Professor  Keredec  and  his 
friend  would  not  mind  eating  in  the  same  garden 
with  a  man  in  a  corduroy  jacket  and  knickerbockers; 
but  the  gentlemen  continued  invisible  to  the  public 
eye,  and  mine  was  the  only  table  set  for  dinner 
in  the  garden.  Up-stairs  the  curtains  were  carefully 
drawn  across  all  the  windows  of  the  east  wing;  little 
leaks  of  orange,  here  and  there,  betraying  the  lights 
[50] 


Chapter  Four 

within.  Glouglou,  bearing  a  tray  of  covered  dishes, 
was  just  entering  the  salon  of  the  "  Grande  Suite," 
and  the  door  closed  quickly  after  him. 

"  It  is  to  be  supposed  that  Professor  Keredec  and 
his  friend  are  fatigued  with  their  journey  from 
Paris?  "  I  began,  a  little  later. 

"  Monsieur,  they  did  not  seem  fatigued,"  said 
Amedee. 

"  But   they   dine   in   their   own   rooms   to-night." 

"  Every  night,  monsieur.  It  is  the  order  of  Pro- 
fessor Keredec.  And  with  their  own  valet-de-chambre 
to  serve  them.  Eh  ? "  He  poured  my  coffee  sol- 
emnly. "  That  is  mysterious,  to  say  the  least, 
isn't  it?  " 

"  To  say  the  very  least,"  I  agreed. 

"  Monsieur  the  professor  is  a  man  of  secrets,  it 
appears,"  continued  Amedee.  "  When  he  wrote  to 
Madame  Brossard  engaging  his  rooms,  he  instructed 
her  to  be  careful  that  none  of  us  should  mention  even 
his  name;  and  to-day  when  he  came,  he  spoke  of  his 
anxiety  on  that  point." 

"  But  you  did  mention  it." 

"  To  whom,  monsieur  ? "  asked  the  old  fellow 
blankly. 

[51] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  To  me." 

"  But  I  told  him  I  had  not,"  said  Amedee  placidly. 
"  It  is  the  same  thing." 

*'  I  wonder,"  I  began,  struck  by  a  sudden  thought, 
"  if  it  will  prove  quite  the  same  thing  in  my  own 
case.  I  suppose  you  have  not  mentioned  the  cir- 
cumstance of  my  being  here  to  your  friend,  Jean 
Ferret  of  Quesnay  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  reproachfully.  "  Has  monsieur 
been  troubled  by  the  people  of  the  chateau  ?  " 

"'Troubled 'by  them?" 

"  Have  they  come  to  seek  out  monsieur  and  dis- 
turb him?  Have  they  done  anything  whatever  to 
show  that  they  have  heard  monsieur  is  here?  " 

"  No,  certainly  they  haven't,"  I  was  obliged  to 
retract  at  once.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Amedee." 

"  Ah,  monsieur ! "  He  made  a  deprecatory  bow 
(which  plunged  me  still  deeper  in  shame),  struck  a 
match,  and  offered  a  light  for  my  cigar  with  a  for- 
giving hand.  "  All  the  same,"  he  pursued,  "  it  seems 
very  mysterious — this  Keredec  affair !  " 

"  To  comprehend  a  great  man,  Amedee,"  I  said, 
"  is  the  next  thing  to  sharing  his  greatness." 

He  blinked  slightly,  pondered  a  moment  upon  this 
[52] 


Chapter  Four 

sententious  drivel,  then  very  properly  ignored  it,  re- 
verting to  his  puzzle. 

"  But  is  it  not  incomprehensible  that  people  should 
eat  indoors  this  fine  weather?  " 

I  admitted  that  it  was.  I  knew  very  well  how  hot 
and  stuffy  the  salon  of  Madame  Brossard's  "  Grande 
Suite "  must  be,  while  the  garden  was  fragrant  in 
the  warm,  dry  night,  and  the  outdoor  air  like  a 
gentle  tonic.  Nevertheless,  Professor  Keredec  and 
his  friend  preferred  the  salon. 

When  a  man  is  leading  a  very  quiet  and  isolated 
life,  it  is  inconceivable  what  trifles  will  occupy  and 
concentrate  his  attention.  The  smaller  the  commu- 
nity the  more  blowzy  with  gossip  you  are  sure  to  find 
it ;  and  I  have  little  doubt  that  when  Friday  learned 
enough  English,  one  of  the  first  things  Crusoe  did 
was  to  tell  him  some  scandal  about  the  goat.  Thus, 
though  I  treated  the  "  Keredec  affair  "  with  a  seem- 
ing airiness  to  Amedee,  I  cunningly  drew  the  faith- 
ful rascal  out,  and  fed  my  curiosity  upon  his  own 
(which,  as  time  went  on  and  the  mystery  deepened, 
seemed  likely  to  burst  him),  until,  virtually,  I  was 
receiving,  every  evening  at  dinner,  a  detailed  report 
[53] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

,if  the  day's  doings  of  Professor  Keredec  and  his 
companion. 

The  reports  were  voluminous,  the  details  few.  The 
two  gentlemen,  as  Amedee  would  relate,  spent  their 
forenoons  over  books  and  writing  in  their  rooms. 
Professor  Keredec's  voice  could  often  be  heard  in 
every  part  of  the  inn ;  at  times  holding  forth  with 
such  protracted  vehemence  that  only  one  explanation 
would  suffice:  the  learned  man  was  delivering  a  lec- 
ture to  his  companion. 

"  Say  then !  "  exclaimed  Amedee — "  what  kind  of 
madness  is  that?  To  make  orations  for  only  one 
auditor ! " 

He  brushed  away  my  suggestion  that  the  auditor 
might  be  a  stenographer  to  whom  the  professor  was 
dictating  chapters  for  a  new  book.  The  relation  be- 
tween the  two  men,  he  contended,  was  more  like  that 
between  teacher  and  pupil.  "  But  a  pupil  with  gray 
hair !  "  he  finished,  raising  his  fat  hands  to  heaven. 
"  For  that  other  monsieur  has  hair  as  gray  as  mine." 

"  That    other    monsieur "    was    farther    described 

as  a  thin  man,  handsome,  but  with  a  "  singular  air," 

nor    could   my   colleague   more   satisfactorily    define 

this  air,  though  he  made  a  racking  struggle  to  do  so. 

[54] 


Chapter  Four 

"  In  what  does  the  peculiarity  of  his  manner  lie?  " 
I  asked. 

"  But  it  is  not  so  much  that  his  manner  is  peculiar, 
monsieur;  it  is  an  air  about  him  that  is  singular. 
Truly!" 

"  But  how  is  it  singular  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  it  is  very,  very  singular." 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  I  insisted.  "  What 
kind  of  singularity  has  the  air  of  *  that  other  mon- 
sieur '  ?  " 

"  It  has,"  replied  Amedee,  with  a  powerful  effort, 
"  a  very  singular  singularity." 

This  was  as  near  as  he  could  come,  and,  fearful 
of  injuring  him,  I  abandoned  that  phase  of  our  sub- 
ject. 

The  valet-de-chambre  whom  my  fellow-lodgers  had 
brought  with  them  from  Paris  contributed  nothing 
to  the  inn's  knowledge  of  his  masters,  I  learned.  This 
struck  me  not  only  as  odd,  but  unique,  for  French 
servants  tell  one  another  everything,  and  more — very 
much  more.  "  But  this  is  a  silent  man,"  said  Amedee 
impressively.  "  Oh !  very  silent !  He  shakes  his  head 
wisely,  yet  he  will  not  open  his  mouth.  However,  that 
may  be  because  " — and  now  the  explanation  came — 
[55] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

'*  because  he  was  engaged  only  last  week  and  knows 
nothing.  Also,  he  is  but  temporary ;  he  returns  to 
Paris  soon  and  Glouglou  is  to  serve  them." 

I  ascertained  that  although  "  that  other  monsieur" 
had  gray  hair,  he  was  by  no  means  a  person  of  great 
age ;  indeed,  Glouglou,  who  had  seen  him  of tener  than 
any  other  of  the  staff,  maintained  that  he  was  quite 
young.  Amedee's  own  opportunities  for  observation 
had  been  limited.  Every  afternoon  the  two  gentlemen 
went  for  a  walk;  but  they  always  came  down  from 
the  gallery  so  quickly,  he  declared,  and,  leaving  the 
inn  by  a  rear  entrance,  plunged  so  hastily  into  the 
nearest  by-path  leading  to  the  forest,  that  he  caught 
little  more  than  glimpses  of  them.  They  returned 
after  an  hour  or  so,  entering  the  inn  with  the  same 
appearance  of  haste  to  be  out  of  sight,  the  professor 
always  talking,  "  with  the  manner  of  an  orator,  but 
in  English."  Nevertheless,  Amedee  remarked,  it  was 
certain  that  Professor  Keredec's  friend  was  neither 
an  American  nor  an  Englishman. 

"  Why  is  it  certain  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Monsieur,  he  drinks  nothing  but  water,  he  does 
not  smoke,  and  Glouglou  says  he  speaks  very  pure 
French." 

[56] 


Chapter  Four 

"  Glouglou  is  an  authority  who  resolves  the  diffi- 
culty. *  That  other  monsieur '  is  a  Frenchman." 

"  But,  monsieur,  he  is  smooth-shaven." 

"  Perhaps  he  has  been  a  maitre  d'hotel." 

"  Eh !  I  wish  one  that  7  know  could  hope  to  dress 
as  well  when  he  retires !  Besides,  Glouglou  says  that 
other  monsieur  eats  his  soup  silently." 

"  I  can  find  no  flaw  in  the  deduction,"  I  said, 
rising  to  go  to  bed.  "  We  must  leave  it  there  for 
to-night." 

The  next  evening  Amedee  allowed  me  to  perceive 
that  he  was  concealing  something  under  his  arm  as 
he  stoked  the  coffee-machine,  and  upon  my  asking 
what  it  was,  he  glanced  round  the  courtyard  with 
histrionic  slyness,  placed  the  object  on  the  table 
beside  my  cap,  and  stepped  back  to  watch  the  im- 
pression, his  manner  that  of  one  who  declaims :  "  At 
last  the  missing  papers  are  before  you !  " 

"What  is  that?"  I  said. 

"  It  is  a  book." 

"  I  am  persuaded  by  your  candour,  Amedee,   as 
well  as  by  the  general  appearance  of  this  article,"  I 
returned  as  I  picked  it  up,  "  that  you  are  speaking 
the  truth.  But  why  do  you  bring  it  to  me?  " 
[57] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Monsieur,"  he  replied,  in  the  tones  of  an  old 
conspirator,  "  this  afternoon  the  professor  and  that 
other  monsieur  went  as  usual  to  walk  in  the  forest." 
He  bent  over  me,  pretending  to  be  busy  with  the 
coffee-machine,  and  lowering  his  voice  to  a  hoarse 
whisper.  "  When  they  returned,  this  book  fell  from 
the  pocket  of  that  other  monsieur's  coat  as  he  as- 
cended the  stair,  and  he  did  not  notice.  Later  I  shall 
return  it  by  Glouglou,  but  I  thought  it  wise  that 
monsieur  should  see  it  for  himself." 

The  book  was  Wentworth's  Algebra — elementary 
principles.  Painful  recollections  of  my  boyhood  and 
the  binomial  theorem  rose  in  my  mind  as  I  let  the 
leaves  turn  under  my  fingers.  "  What  do  you  make 
of  it?"  I  asked. 

His  tone  became  even  more  confidential.  "  Part 
of  it,  monsieur,  is  in  English;  that  is  plain.  I  have 
found  an  English  word  in  it  that  I  know — the  word 
'  O.'  But  much  of  the  printing  is  also  in  Arabic." 

"  Arabic !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  look  there."  He  laid  a  fat  fore- 
finger on  "(a  +  b)2  =  a2  +  2ab  +  b2."  "That  is 
Arabic.  Old  Gaston  has  been  to  Algeria,  and  he  says 
that  he  knows  Arabic  as  well  as  he  does  French.  He 
[58] 


Chapter  Four 

looked   at   the   book    and   told   me   it   was   Arabic. 
Truly !  Truly !  " 

"Did  he  translate  any  of  it  for  you?" 

"  No,  monsieur ;  his  eyes  pained  him  this  after- 
noon. He  says  he  will  read  it  to-morrow." 

"  But  you   must   return   the  book  to-night." 

"  That  is  true.  Eh !  It  leaves  the  mystery  deeper 
than  ever,  unless  monsieur  can  find  some  clue  in 
those  parts  of  the  book  that  are  English." 

I  shed  no  light  upon  him.  The  book  had  been 
Greek  to  me  in  my  tender  years ;  it  was  a  pleasure 
now  to  leave  a  fellow-being  under  the  impression  that 
it  was  Arabic. 

But  the  volume  took  its  little  revenge  upon  me, 
for  it  increased  my  curiosity  about  Professor  Keredec 
and  "  that  other  monsieur."  Why  were  two  grown 
men — one  an  eminent  psychologist  and  the  other  a 
gray-haired  youth  with  a  singular  air — carrying 
about  on  their  walks  a  text-book  for  the  instruction 
of  boys  of  thirteen  or  fourteen? 

The  next  day  that  curiosity  of  mine  was  piqued 

in  earnest.  It  rained  and  I  did  not  leave  the  inn, 

but  sat  under  the  great  archway  and  took  notes  in 

colour  of  the  shining  road,  bright  drenched  fields, 

[59] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

and  dripping  sky.  My  back  was  toward  the  court- 
yard, that  is,  "  three-quarters "  to  it,  and  about 
noon  I  became  distracted  from  my  work  by  a  strong 
self-consciousness  which  came  upon  me  without  any 
visible  or  audible  cause.  Obeying  an  impulse,  I 
swung  round  on  my  camp-stool  and  looked  up  di- 
rectly at  the  gallery  window  of  the  salon  of  the 
"Grande  Suite." 

A  man  with  a  great  white  beard  was  standing  at 
the  window,  half  hidden  by  the  curtain,  watching  me 
intently. 

He  perceived  that  I  saw  him  and  dropped  the  cur- 
tain immediately,  a  speck  of  colour  in  his  buttonhole 
catching  my  eye  as  it  fell. 

The  spy  was  Professor  Keredec. 

But  why  should  he  study  me  so  slyly  and  yet  so 
obviously?  I  had  no  intention  of  intruding  upon 
him.  Nor  was  I  a  psychological  "  specimen,"  though 
I  began  to  suspect  that  "  that  other  monsieur  "  was. 


[60] 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

1HAD  been  painting  in  various  parts  of  the 
forest,  studying  the  early  morning  along  the 
eastern  fringe  and  moving  deeper  in  as  the  day 
advanced.  For  the  stillness  and  warmth  of  noon  I 
went  to  the  very  woodland  heart,  and  in  the  late 
afternoon  moved  westward  to  a  glade — a  chance 
arena  open  to  the  sky,  the  scene  of  my  most  auda- 
cious endeavours,  for  here  I  was  trying  to  paint  foli- 
age luminous  under  those  long  shafts  of  sunshine 
which  grow  thinner  but  ruddier  toward  sunset.  A 
path  closely  bordered  by  underbrush  wound  its  way 
to  the  glade,  crossed  it,  then  wandered  away  into 
shady  dingles  again;  and  with  my  easel  pitched  in 
the  mouth  of  this  path,  I  sat  at  work,  one  late  after- 
noon, wonderful  for  its  still  loveliness. 

The  path  debouched  abruptly  on  the  glade  and 

was  so  narrow  that  when  I  leaned  back  my  elbows 

were  in  the  bushes,  and  it  needed  care  to  keep  my 

palette  from  being  smirched  by  the  leaves ;  though 

[61] 


The  Quest  of  Quesnay 

there  was  more  room  for  my  canvas  and  easel,  as  I 
had  placed  them  at  arm's  length  before  me,  fairly 
in  the  open.  I  had  the  ambition  to  paint  a  picture 
here — to  do  the  whole  thing  in  the  woods  from  day 
to  day,  instead  of  taking  notes  for  the  studio — 
and  was  at  work  upon  a  very  foolish  experiment: 
I  had  thought  to  render  the  light — broken  by  the 
branches  and  foliage — with  broken  brush-work,  a 
short  stroke  of  the  kind  that  stung  an  elder  painter 
to  swear  that  its  practitioners  painted  in  shak- 
ing fear  of  the  concierge  appearing  for  the  studio 
rent.  The  attempt  was  alluring,  but  when  I  rose 
from  my  camp-stool  and  stepped  back  into  the 
path  to  get  more  distance  for  my  canvas,  I  saw 
what  a  mess  I  was  making  of  it.  At  the  same  time, 
my  hand,  falling  into  the  capacious  pocket  of  my 
jacket,  encountered  a  package,  my  lunch,  which  I 
had  forgotten  to  eat,  whereupon,  becoming  suddenly 
aware  that  I  was  very  hungry,  I  began  to  eat  Ame- 
dee's  good  sandwiches  without  moving  from  where 
I  stood. 

Absorbed,  gazing  with  abysmal  disgust  at  my  can- 
vas, I  was  eating  absent-mindedly — and  with  all  the 
restraint  and  dignity  of  a  Georgia  darky  attacking 
[62] 


Chapter  Five 

a  watermelon — when  a  pleasant  voice  spoke  from  just 
behind  me: 

"  Pardon,  monsieur ;  permit  me  to  pass,  if  you 
please." 

That  was  all  it  said,  very  quietly  and  in  French, 
but  a  gunshot  might  have  startled  me  less. 

I  turned  in  confusion  to  behold  a  dark-eyed  lady, 
charmingly  dressed  in  lilac  and  white,  waiting  for  me 
to  make  way  so  that  she  could  pass. 

Nay,  let  me  leave  no  detail  of  my  mortification 
unrecorded:  I  have  just  said  that  I  "  turned  in  con- 
fusion ";  the  truth  is  that  I  jumped  like  a  kangaroo, 
but  with  infinitely  less  grace.  And  in  my  nervous 
haste  to  clear  her  way,  meaning  only  to  push  the 
camp-stool  out  of  the  path  with  my  foot,  I  put  too 
much  valour  into  the  push,  and  with  horror  saw  the 
camp-stool  rise  in  the  air  and  drop  to  the  ground 
again  nearly  a  third  of  the  distance  across  the 
glade. 

Upon  that  I  squeezed  myself  back  into  the  bushes, 
my  ears  singing  and  my  cheeks  burning. 

There  are  women  who  will  meet  or  pass  a  strange 
man  in  the  woods  or  fields  with  as  finished  an  air  of 
being  unaware  of  him  (particularly  if  he  be  a  rather 
[63] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

shabby  painter  no  longer  young)  as  if  the  encounter 
took  place  on  a  city  sidewalk;  but  this  woman  was 
not  of  that  priggish  kind.  Her  straightforward 
glance  recognised  my  existence  as  a  fellow-being ;  and 
she  further  acknowledged  it  by  a  faint  smile,  which 
was  of  courtesy  only,  however,  and  admitted  no  ref- 
erence to  the  fact  that  at  the  first  sound  of  her  voice 
I  had  leaped  into  the  air,  kicked  a  camp-stool  twenty 
feet,  and  now  stood  blushing,  so  shamefully  stuffed 
with  sandwich  that  I  dared  not  speak. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  as  she  went  by ;  and  made 
me  a  little  bow  so  graceful  that  it  almost  consoled 
me  for  my  caperings. 

I  stood  looking  after  her  as  she  crossed  the  clear- 
ing and  entered  the  cool  winding  of  the  path  on  the 
other  side. 

I  stared  and  wished — wished  that  I  could  have 
painted  her  into  my  picture,  with  the  thin,  ruddy 
sunshine  flecking  her  dress;  wished  that  I  had  not 
cut  such  an  idiotic  figure.  I  stared  until  her  filmy 
summer  hat,  which  was  the  last  bit  of  her  to  disap- 
pear, had  vanished.  Then,  discovering  that  I  still 
held  the  horrid  remains  of  a  sausage-sandwich  in  my 
hand,  I  threw  it  into  the  underbrush  with 
[64] 


Chapter  Five 

sary  force,  and,  recovering  my  camp-stool,  sat  down 
to  work  again. 

I  did  not  immediately  begin. 

The  passing  of  a  pretty  woman  anywhere  never 
comes  to  be  quite  of  no  moment  to  a  man,  and  the 
passing  of  a  pretty  woman  in  the  greenwood  is  an 
episode — even  to  a  middle-aged  landscape  painter. 
"An  episode?"  quoth  I.  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
withhold  the  truth  out  of  my  fear  to  be  taken  for 
a  sentimentalist:  this  woman  who  had  passed  was  of 
great  and  instant  charm;  it  was  as  if  I  had  heard 
a  serenade  there  in  the  woods — and  at  thought  of 
the  jig  I  had  danced  to  it  my  face  burned  again. 

With  a  sigh  of  no  meaning,  I  got  my  eyes  down 
to  my  canvas  and  began  to  peck  at  it  perfunctorily, 
when  a  snapping  of  twigs  underfoot  and  a  swishing 
of  branches  in  the  thicket  warned  me  of  a  second 
intruder,  not  approaching  by  the  path,  but  forcing 
a  way  toward  it  through  the  underbrush,  and  very 
briskly  too,  judging  by  the  sounds. 

He  burst  out  into  the  glade  a  few  paces  from  me, 

a  tall  man  in  white  flannels,  liberally  decorated  with 

brambles    and    clinging    shreds    of    underbrush.    A 

streamer  of  vine  had  caught  about  his   shoulders; 

[65] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

there  were  leaves  on  his  bare  head,  and  this,  to- 
gether with  the  youthful  sprightliness  of  his  light 
figure  and  the  nai've  activity  of  his  approach,  gave 
me  a  very  faunlike  first  impression  of  him. 

At  sight  of  me  he  stopped  short. 

"  Have  you  seen  a  lady  in  a  white  and  lilac  dress 
and  with  roses  in  her  hat  ?  "  he  demanded,  omitting 
all  preface  and  speaking  with  a  quick  eagerness 
which  caused  me  no  wonder — for  I  had  seen  the  lady. 

What  did  surprise  me,  however,  was  the  instan- 
taneous certainty  with  which  I  recognised  the  speaker 
from  Amedee's  description ;  certainty  founded  on  the 
very  item  which  had  so  dangerously  strained  the 
old  fellow's  powers. 

My  sudden  gentleman  was  strikingly  good-looking, 
his  complexion  so  clear  and  boyishly  healthy,  that, 
except  for  his  gray  hair,  he  might  have  passed  for 
twenty-two  or  twenty-three,  and  even  as  it  was  I 
guessed  his  years  short  of  thirty;  but  there  are 
plenty  of  handsome  young  fellows  with  prematurely 
gray  hair,  and,  as  Amedee  said,  though  out  of  the 
world  we  were  near  it.  It  was  the  new-comer's 
"  singular  air  "  which  established  his  identity.  Ame- 
dee's vagueness  had  irked  me,  but  the  thing  itself 
[66] 


Chapter  Five 

• — the  "  singular  air  " — was  not  at  all  vague.  In- 
stantly perceptible,  it  was  an  investiture;  marked, 
definite — and  intangible.  My  interrogator  was  "  that 
other  monsieur." 

In  response  to  his  question  I  asked  him  another: 

"Were  the  roses  real  or  artificial?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  with  what  I  took 
to  be  a  whimsical  assumption  of  gravity.  "  It 
wouldn't  matter,  would  it  ?  Have  you  seen  her  ?  " 

He  stooped  to  brush  the  brambles  from  his  trou- 
sers, sending  me  a  sidelong  glance  from  his  blue 
eyes,  which  were  brightly  confident  and  inquiring, 
like  a  boy's.  At  the  same  time  it  struck  me  that  what- 
ever the  nature  of  the  singularity  investing  him  it 
partook  of  nothing  repellent,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
measurably  enhanced  his  attractiveness ;  making  him 
"  different "  and  lending  him  a  distinction  which, 
without  it,  he  might  have  lacked.  And  yet,  patent 
as  this  singularity  must  have  been  to  the  dullest, 
it  was  something  quite  apart  from  any  eccentricity 
of  manner,  though,  heaven  knows,  I  was  soon  to  think 
him  odd  enough. 

"  Isn't  your  description,"  I  said  gravely,  think- 
ing to  suit  my  humour  to  his  own,  "  somewhat  too 
[67] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

general?  Over  yonder  a  few  miles  lies  Houlgate. 
Trouville  itself  is  not  so  far,  and  this  is  the  season. 
A  great  many  white  hats  trimmed  with  roses  might 
come  for  a  stroll  in  these  woods.  If  you  would  com- 
plete the  items — !"  and  I  waved  my  hand  as  if  in- 
viting him  to  continue. 

"  I  have  seen  her  only  once  before,"  he  responded 
promptly,  with  a  seriousness  apparently  quite  genu- 
ine. "  That  was  from  my  window  at  an  inn,  three 
days  ago.  She  drove  by  in  an  open  carriage  without 
looking  up,  but  I  could  see  that  she  was  very  hand- 
some. No — "  he  broke  off  abruptly,  but  as  quickly 
resumed — "  handsome  isn't  just  what  I  mean.  Lovely, 
I  should  say.  That  is  more  like  her  and  a  better 
thing  to  be,  shouldn't  you  think  so?  " 

"  Probably — yes — I  think  so,"  I  stammered,  in 
considerable  amazement. 

"  She  went  by  quickly,"  he  said,  as  if  he  were  talk- 
ing in  the  most  natural  and  ordinary  way  in  the 
world,  "  but  I  noticed  that  while  she  was  in  the 
shade  of  the  inn  her  hair  appeared  to  be  dark,  though 
when  the  carriage  got  into  the  sunlight  again  it 
looked  fair." 

I  had  noticed  the  same  thing  when  the  lady  who 
[68] 


Chapter  Five 

had  passed  emerged  from  the  shadows  of  the  path 
into  the  sunshine  of  the  glade,  but  I  did  not  speak 
of  it  now;  partly  because  he  gave  me  no  opportu- 
nity, partly  because  I  was  almost  too  astonished  to 
speak  at  all,  for  I  was  no  longer  under  the  delusion 
that  he  had  any  humourous  or  whimsical  intention. 

"  A  little  while  ago,"  he  went  on,  "  I  was  up  in 
the  branches  of  a  tree  over  yonder,  and  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  lady  in  a  light  dress  and  a  white  hat 
and  I  thought  it  might  be  the  same.  She  vore  a 
dress  like  that  and  a  white  hat  with  roses  when  she 
drove  by  the  inn.  I  am  very  anxious  to  see  her 
again." 

"  You  seem  to  be !  " 

"  And  haven't  you  seen  her  ?  Hasn't  she  passed 
this  way  ?  " 

He  urged  the  question  with  the  same  strange 
eagerness  which  had  marked  his  manner  from  the 
first,  a  manner  which  confounded  me  by  its  absurd 
resemblance  to  that  of  a  boy  who  had  not  mixed 
with  other  boys  and  had  never  been  teased.  And  yet 
his  expression  was  intelligent  and  alert;  nor  was 
there  anything  abnormal  or  "  queer "  in  his  good- 
humoured  gaze. 

[69] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"I  think  that  I  may  have  seen  her,"  I  began 
slowly ;  "  but  if  you  do  not  know  her  I  should  not 
advise " 

I  was  interrupted  by  a  shout  and  the  sound  of  a 
large  body  plunging  in  the  thicket.  At  this  the  face 
of  "  that  other  monsieur  "  flushed  slightly ;  he  smiled, 
but  seemed  troubled. 

"  That  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  he  said.  "  I  am  afraid 
he  will  want  me  to  go  back  with  him."  And  he  raised 
an  answering  shout. 

Professor  Keredec  floundered  out  through  the  last 
row  of  saplings  and  bushes,  his  beard  embellished 
with  a  broken  twig,  his  big  face  red  and  perspir- 
ing. He  was  a  fine,  a  mighty  man,  ponderous  of 
shoulder,  monumental  of  height,  stupendous  of  girth ; 
there  was  cloth  enough  in  the  hot-looking  black 
frock-coat  he  wore  for  the  canopy  of  a  small  pavil- 
ion. Half  a  dozen  books  were  under  his  arm,  and 
in  his  hand  he  carried  a  hat  which  evidently  belonged 
to  "  that  other  monsieur,"  for  his  own  was  on  his 
head. 

One  glance  of  scrutiny  and  recognition  he  shot  at 
me  from  his  silver-rimmed  spectacles ;  and  seized  the 
young  man  by  the  arm. 

[70] 


Chapter  Five 

"  Ha,  my  friend ! "  he  exclaimed  in  a  bass  voice 
of  astounding  power  and  depth,  "  that  is  one  way 
to  study  botany:  to  jump  out  of  the  middle  of  a 
high  tree  and  to  run  like  a  crazy  man ! "  He  spoke 
with  a  strong  accent  and  a  thunderous  rolling  of  the 
«  r.»  «  What  was  I  to  think?  "  he  demanded.  "  What 
has  arrived  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  saw  a  lady  I  wished  to  follow,"  the  other 
answered  promptly. 

"A  lady!  What  lady?" 

"  The  lady  who  passed  the  inn  three  days  ago. 
I  spoke  of  her  then,  you  remember." 

"  Tonnerre  de  Dieu!  "  Kcredec  slapped  his  thigh 
with  the  sudden  violence  of  a  man  who  remembers 
that  he  has  forgotten  something,  and  as  a  final  ad- 
dition to  my  amazement,  his  voice  rang  more  of 
remorse  than  of  reproach.  "  Have  I  never  told  you 
that  to  follow  strange  ladies  is  one  of  the  things 
you  cannot  do?  " 

"  That  other  monsieur  "  shook  his  head.  "  No,  you 
have  never  told  me  that.  I  do  not  understand  it," 
he  said,  adding  irrelevantly,  "  I  believe  this  gentle- 
man knows  her.  He  says  he  thinks  he  has  seen  her." 

"  If  you  please,  we  must  not  trouble  this  gentle- 
[71] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

man  about  it,"  said  the  professor  hastily.  "  Put  on 
your  hat,  in  the  name  of  a  thousand  saints,  and  let 
us  go !  " 

"  But  I  wish  to  ask  him  her  name,"  urged  the 
other,  with  something  curiously  like  the  obstinacy  of 
a  child.  "  I  wish " 

"  No,  no !  "  Keredec  took  him  by  the  arm.  "  We 
must  go.  We  shall  be  late  for  our  dinner." 

"  But  why  ?  "  persisted  the  young  man. 

"  Not  now !  "  The  professor  removed  his  broad  felt 
hat  and  hurriedly  wiped  his  vast  and  steaming  brow 
— a  magnificent  structure,  corniced,  at  this  moment, 
with  anxiety.  "  It  is  better  if  we  do  not  discuss  it 
now." 

"  But  I  might  not  meet  him  again." 

Professor  Keredec  turned  toward  me  with  a  half- 
desperate,  half-apologetic  laugh  which  was  like  the 
rumbling  of  heavy  wagons  over  a  block  pavement; 
and  in  his  flustered  face  I  thought  I  read  a  signal 
of  genuine  distress. 

"  I  do  not  know  the  lady,"  I  said  with  some  sharp- 
ness. "  I  have  never  seen  her  until  this  afternoon." 

Upon  this  "  that  other  monsieur  "  astonished  me 
in  good  earnest.  Searching  my  eyes  eagerly  with  his 
[72] 


Chapter  Five 

clear,  inquisitive  gaze,  he  took  a  step  toward  me  and 
said: 

"  You  are  sure  you  are  telling  the  truth?  " 

The  professor  uttered  an  exclamation  of  horror, 
sprang  forward,  and  clutched  his  friend's  arm  again. 
"  Malheureux! "  he  cried,  and  then  to  me :  "  Sir, 
you  will  give  him  pardon  if  you  can?  He  has  no 
meaning  to  be  rude." 

"  Rude  ?  "  The  young  man's  voice  showed  both 
astonishment  and  pain.  "  Was  that  rude  ?  I  didn't 
know.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,  God  knows!  Ah," 
he  said  sadly,  "  I  do  nothing  but  make  mistakes. 
I  hope  you  will  forgive  me." 

He  lifted  his  hand  as  if  in  appeal,  and  let  it  drop 
to  his  side;  and  in  the  action,  as  well  as  in  the  tone 
of  his  voice  and  his  attitude  of  contrition,  there  was 
something  that  reached  me  suddenly,  with  the  touch 
of  pathos. 

"  Never  mind,"  I  said.  "  I  am  only  sorry  that  it 
was  the  truth." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  turned  humbly  to 
Keredec. 

"  Ha,  that  is  better ! "  shouted  the  great  man, 
apparently  relieved  of  a  vast  weight.  "  We  shall  go 
[73] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

home  now  and  eat  a  good  dinner.  But  first — "  his 
silver-rimmed  spectacles  twinkled  upon  me,  and  he 
bent  his  Brobdingnagian  back  in  a  bow  which  against 
my  will  reminded  me  of  the  curtseys  performed  by 
Orloff's  dancing  bears — "  first  let  me  speak  some 
words  for  myself.  My  dear  sir" — he  addressed  him- 
self to  me  with  grave  formality — "  do  not  suppose  I 
have  no  realization  that  other  excuses  should  be  made 
to  you.  Believe  me,  they  shall  be.  It  is  now  that 
I  see  it  is  fortunate  for  us  that  you  are  our  fellow- 
innsman  at  Les  Trois  Pigeons." 

I  was  unable  to  resist  the  opportunity,  and,  affect- 
ing considerable  surprise,  interrupted  him  with  the 
apparently  guileless  query: 

"  Why,  how  did  you  know  that  ?  " 

Professor  Keredec's  laughter  rumbled  again,  grow- 
ing deeper  and  louder  till  it  reverberated  in  the  woods 
and  a  hundred  hale  old  trees  laughed  back  at  him. 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho ! "  he  shouted.  "  But  you  shall  not 
take  me  for  a  window-curtain  spy!  That  is  a  fine 
reputation  I  give  myself  with  you !  Ho,  ho !  " 

Then,  followed  submissively  by  "  that  other  mon- 
sieur," he  strode  into  the  path  and  went  thundering 
forth  through  the  forest. 

[74] 


CHAPTER    SIX 

NO  doubt  the  most  absurd  thing  I  could  have 
done  after  the  departure  of  Professor  Ke- 
redec  and  his   singular  friend  would  have 
been  to  settle  myself  before  my  canvas  again  with 
the  intention  of  painting — and  that  is  what  I  did. 
At  least,  I  resumed  my  camp-stool  and  went  through 
some  of  the  motions  habitually  connected  with  the 
act  of  painting. 

I  remember  that  the  first  time  in  my  juvenile 
reading  I  came  upon  the  phrase,  "  seated  in  a  brown 
study,"  I  pictured  my  hero  in  a  brown  chair,  beside 
a  brown  table,  in  a  room  hung  with  brown  paper. 
Later,  being  enlightened,  I  was  ambitious  to  display 
the  figure  myself,  but  the  uses  of  ordinary  cor- 
respondence allowed  the  occasion  for  it  to  remain 
unoffered.  Let  me  not  only  seize  upon  the  present 
opportunity  but  gild  it,  for  the  adventure  of  the 
afternoon  left  me  in  a  study  which  was,  at  its  mildest, 
a  profound  purple. 

[75] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

The  confession  has  been  made  of  my  curiosity  con- 
cerning my  fellow-lodgers  at  Les  Trois  Pigeons; 
however,  it  had  been  comparatively  a  torpid  growth ; 
my  meeting  with  them  served  to  enlarge  it  so  sud- 
denly and  to  such  proportions  that  I  wonder  it  did 
not  strangle  me.  In  fine,  I  sat  there  brush-paddling 
my  failure  like  an  automaton,  and  saying  over  and 
over  aloud,  "  What  is  wrong  with  him  ?  What  is 
wrong  with  him  ?  " 

This  was  the  sillier  inasmuch  as  the  word 
"  wrong "  (bearing  any  significance  of  a  darkened 
mind)  had  not  the  slightest  application  to  "  that 
other  monsieur."  There  had  been  neither  darkness  nor 
dulness;  his  eyes,  his  expression,  his  manner,  be- 
trayed no  hint  of  wildness ;  rather  they  bespoke  a 
quick  and  amiable  intelligence — the  more  amazing 
that  he  had  shown  himself  ignorant  of  things  a 
child  of  ten  would  know.  Amedee  and  his  fellows  of 
Les  Trois  Pigeons  had  judged  wrongly  of  his  na- 
tionality; his  face  was  of  the  lean,  right,  American 
structure;  but  they  had  hit  the  relation  between  the 
two  men :  Keredec  was  the  master  and  "  that  other 
monsieur  "  the  scholar — a  pupil  studying  boys'  text- 
books and  receiving  instruction  in  matters  and  man- 
[76] 


Chapter  Six 

ners  that  children  are  taught.  And  yet  I  could  not 
believe  him  to  be  a  simple  case  of  arrested  develop- 
ment. For  the  matter  of  that,  I  did  not  like  to  think 
of  him  as  a  "  case  "  at  all.  There  had  been  something 
about  his  bright  youthfulness — perhaps  it  was  his 
quick  contrition  for  his  rudeness,  perhaps  it  was  a 
certain  wistful  quality  he  had,  perhaps  it  was  his 
very  "  singularity  " — which  appealed  as  directly  to 
my  liking  as  it  did  urgently  to  my  sympathy. 

I  came  out  of  my  vari-coloured  study  with  a  start, 
caused  by  the  discovery  that  I  had  absent-mindedly 
squeezed  upon  my  palette  the  entire  contents  of  an 
expensive  tube  of  cobalt  violet,  for  which  I  had  no 
present  use;  and  sighing  (for,  of  necessity,  I  am  an 
economical  man),  I  postponed  both  of  my  problems 
till  another  day,  determined  to  efface  the  one  with 
a  palette  knife  and  a  rag  soaked  in  turpentine,  and 
to  defer  the  other  until  I  should  know  more  of  my 
fellow-lodgers  at  Madame  Brossard's. 

The  turpentine  rag  at  least  proved  effective;  I 
scoured  away  the  last  tokens  of  my  failure  with  it, 
wishing  that  life  were  like  the  canvas  and  that  men 
had  knowledge  of  the  right  celestial  turpentine. 
After  that  I  cleaned  my  brushes,  packed  and  shoul- 
[77] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

dered  my  kit,  and,  with  a  final  imprecation  upon  all 
sausage-sandwiches,  took  up  my  way  once  more  to 
Les  Trois  Pigeons. 

Presently  I  came  upon  an  intersecting  path  where, 
on  my  previous  excursions,  I  had  always  borne  to  the 
right ;  but  this  evening,  thinking  to  discover  a  shorter 
cut,  I  went  straight  ahead.  Striding  along  at  a  good 
gait  and  chanting  sonorously,  "  On  Linden  when  the 
sun  was  low,"  I  left  the  rougher  boscages  of  the 
forest  behind  me  and  emerged,  just  at  sunset,  upon 
an  orderly  fringe  of  woodland  where  the  ground  was 
neat  and  unencumbered,  and  the  trimmed  trees  stood 
at  polite  distances,  bowing  slightly  to  one  another 
with  small,  well-bred  rustlings. 

The  light  was  somewhere  between  gold  and  pink 
when  I  came  into  this  lady's  boudoir  of  a  grove. 
"  Isar  flowing  rapidly  "  ceased  its  tumult  abruptly, 
and  Linden  saw  no  sterner  sight  that  evening:  my 
voice  and  my  feet  stopped  simultaneously — for  I 
stood  upon  Quesnay  ground. 

Before  me  stretched  a  short  broad  avenue  of  turf, 

leading  to  the  chateau  gates.   These  stood  open,  a 

gravelled  driveway  climbing  thence  by  easy   stages 

between  kempt  shrubberies  to  the  crest  of  the  hill, 

[78] 


Chapter  Six 

where  the  gray  roof  and  red  chimney-pots  of  the 
chateau  were  glimpsed  among  the  tree-tops.  The 
slope  was  terraced  with  strips  of  flower-gardens  and 
intervals  of  sward ;  and  against  the  green  of  a  rising 
lawn  I  marked  the  figure  of  a  woman,  pausing  to 
bend  over  some  flowering  bush.  The  figure  was  too 
slender  to  be  mistaken  for  that  of  the  present  chate- 
laine of  Quesnay:  in  Miss  Elizabeth's  regal  ampli- 
tude there  was  never  any  hint  of  fragility.  The  lady 
upon  the  slope,  then,  I  concluded,  must  be  Madame 
d'Armand,  the  inspiration  of  Amedee's  "  Monsieur 
has  much  to  live  for !  " 

Once  more  this  day  I  indorsed  that  worthy  man's 
opinion,  for,  though  I  was  too  far  distant  to  see 
clearly,  I  knew  that  roses  trimmed  Madame  d'Ar- 
mand's  white  hat,  and  that  she  had  passed  me,  no 
long  time  since,  in  the  forest. 

I  took  off  my  cap. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  salute  you,"  I  said  aloud. 
"  I  make  my  apologies  for  misbehaving  with  sand- 
wiches and  camp-stools  in  your  presence,  Madame 
d'Armand." 

Something  in  my  own  pronunciation  of  her  name 
struck  me  as  reminiscent:  save  for  the  prefix,  it  had 
[79] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

sounded  like  "  Harman,"  as  a  Frenchman  might  pro- 
nounce it. 

Foreign  names  involve  the  French  in  terrible  diffi- 
culties. Hughes,  an  English  friend  of  mine,  has  lived 
in  France  some  five-and-thirty  years  without  recon- 
ciling himself  to  being  known  as  "  Monsieur  Ig." 
"Armand  "  might  easily  be  Jean  Ferret's  translation 
of  "  Harman."  Had  he  and  Ame"dee  in  their  admira- 
tion conferred  the  prefix  because  they  considered  it 
a  plausible  acompaniment  to  the  lady's  gentle  bear- 
ing? It  was  not  impossible;  re  was,  I  concluded,  very 
probable, 

I  had  come  far  out  of  my  way,  so  I  retraced  my 
steps  to  the  intersection  of  the  paths,  and  thence 
made  for  the  inn  by  my  accustomed  route.  The  light 
failed  under  the  roofing  of  foliage  long  before  I  was 
free  of  the  woods,  and  I  emerged  upon  the  road 
to  Les  Trois  Pigeons  when  twilight  had  turned 
to  dusk. 

Not  far  along  the  road  from  where  I  came  into 
it,  stood  an  old,  brown,  deep-thatched  cottage — a 
branch  of  brushwood  over  the  door  prettily  beckon- 
ing travellers  to  the  knowledge  that  cider  was  here 
for  the  thirsty ;  and  as  I  drew  near  I  perceived  that 
[80] 


Chapter  Six 

one  availed  himself  of  the  invitation.  A  group  stood 
about  the  open  door,  the  lamp-light  from  within 
disclosing  the  head  of  the  house  filling  a  cup  for 
the  wayfarer ;  while  honest  Mere  Baudry  and  two 
generations  of  younger  Baudrys  clustered  to  miss 
no  word  of  the  interchange  of  courtesies  between 
Pere  Baudry  and  his  chance  patron. 

It  afforded  me  some  surprise  to  observe  that  the 
latter  was  a  most  mundane  and  elaborate  wayfarer, 
indeed ;  a  small  young  man  very  lightly  made,  like  a 
jockey,  and  point-device  in  khaki,  puttees,  pongee 
cap,  white-and-green  stock,  a  knapsack  on  his  back, 
and  a  bamboo  stick  under  his  arm;  altogether 
equipped  to  such  a  high  point  of  pedestrianism  that 
a  cynical  person  might  have  been  reminded  of  loud 
calls  for  wine  at  some  hostelry  in  the  land  of  opera 
bouffe.  He  was  speaking  fluently,  though  with  a 
detestable  accent,  in  a  rough-and-ready,  picked-up 
dialect  of  Parisian  slang,  evidently  under  the  pleas- 
ant delusion  that  he  employed  the  French  language, 
while  Pere  Baudry  contributed  his  share  of  the  con- 
versation in  a  slow  patois.  As  both  men  spoke  at  the 
same  time  and  neither  understood  two  consecutive 
words  the  other  said,  it  struck  me  that  the  dialogue 
[81] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

might  prove  unproductive  of  any  highly  important 
results  this  side  of  Michaelmas ;  therefore,  discover- 
ing that  the  very  pedestrian  gentleman  was  making 
some  sort  of  inquiry  concerning  Les  Trots  Pigeons, 
I  came  to  a  halt  and  proffered  aid. 

"  Are  you  looking  for  Madame  Brossard's  ?  "  I 
asked  in  English. 

The  traveller  uttered  an  exclamation  and  faced 
about  with  a  jump,  birdlike  for  quickness.  He  did 
not  reply  to  my  question  with  the  same  promptness ; 
however,  his  deliberation  denoted  scrutiny,  not  sloth. 
He  stood  peering  at  me  sharply  until  I  repeated  it. 
Even  then  he  protracted  his  examination  of  me,  a 
favour  I  was  unable  to  return  with  any  interest,  ow- 
ing to  the  circumstance  of  his  back  being  toward  the 
light.  Nevertheless,  I  got  a  clear  enough  impression 
of  his  alert,  well-poised  little  figure,  and  of  a  hatch- 
ety  little  face,  and  a  pair  of  shrewd  little  eyes, 
which  (I  thought)  held  a  fine  little  conceit  of  his 
whole  little  person.  It  was  a  type  of  fellow-country- 
man not  altogether  unknown  about  certain  "  Ameri- 
can Bars  "  of  Paris,  and  usually  connected  (more  or 
less  directly)  with  what  is  known  to  the  people  of 
France  as  "  le  Sport." 

[82] 


Chapter  Six 

"  Say,"  he  responded  in  a  voice  of  unpleasant  na- 
sality, finally  deciding  upon  speech,  "  you're  'Num- 
meric'n,  ain't  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  returned.  "  I  thought  I  heard  you  in- 
quiring for " 

"  Well,  m'  friend,  you  can  sting  me ! "  he  inter- 
rupted with  condescending  jocularity.  "  My  style 
French  does  f'r  them  camels  up  in  Paris  all  right. 
Me  at  Nice,  Monte  Carlo,  Chantilly — bow  to  the 
p'fess'r;  he's  right!  But  down  here  I  don't  seem  to 
be  gud  enough  f'r  these  sheep-dogs;  anyway  they 
bark  different.  I'm  lukkin'  fer  a  hotel  called  Les 
Trois  Pigeons." 

"  I  am  going  there,"  I  said ;  "  I  will  show  you  the 
way." 

"  Whur  is  't  ?  "  he  asked,  not  moving. 

I  pointed  to  the  lights  of  the  inn,  flickering  across 
the  fields.  "  Yonder — beyond  the  second  turn  of 
the  road,"  I  said,  and,  as  he  showed  no  signs 
of  accompanying  me,  I  added,  "  I  am  rather 
late." 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  goin'  there  t'night.  It's  too  dark 
t'  see  anything  now,"  he  remarked,  to  my  astonish- 
ment. "  Dives  and  the  choo-choo  back  t'  little  ole 
[83] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

Trouville   f'r  mine!   I   on'y  wanted  to   take  a  luJe 
at  this  pigeon-house  joint." 

"  Do  you  mind  my  inquiring,"  I  said,  "  what  you 
expected  to  see  at  Les  Trois  Pigeons?  ' 

"  Why ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  if  astonished  at  the 
question,  "  I'm  a  tourist.  Makin'  a  pedestrun  trip  t' 
all  the  reg'ler  sights."  And,  inspired  to  eloquence,  he 
added,  as  an  afterthought :  "  As  it  were." 

"  A  tourist  ?  "  I  echoed,  with  perfect  incredulity. 

"  That's  whut  I  am,  m'  friend,"  he  returned  firmly. 
"You  don't  have  to  have  a  red  dope-book  in  one 
hand  and  a  thoid-class  choo-choo  ticket  in  the  other 
to  be  a  tourist,  do  you  ?  " 

"  But  if  you  will  pardon  me,"  I  said,  "  where  did 
you  get  the  notion  that  Leg  Trois  Pigeons  is  one  of 
the  regular  sights  ?  " 

"  Ain't  it  in  all  the  books?  " 

"  I  don't  think  that  it  is  mentioned  in  any  of  the 
guide-books." 

"  No!  I  didn't  say  it  was,  m'  friend,"  he  retorted 
with  contemptuous  pity.  "  I  mean  them  history- 
books.  It's  in  all  o'  them!  " 

"  This   is   strange  news,"   said  I.   "  I   should  be 
very  much  interested  to  read  them ! " 
[84] 


Chapter  Six 

"  Lookahere,"  he  said,  taking  a  step  nearer  me ; 
"  in  oinest  now,  on  your  woid :  Didn'  more'n  half 
them  Jeanne  d'Arc  tamales  live  at  that  hotel  wunst  ?  " 

"  Nobody  of  historical  importance — or  any  other 
kind  of  importance,  so  far  as  I  know — ever  lived 
there,"  I  informed  him.  "  The  older  portions  of  the 
inn  once  belonged  to  an  ancient  farm-house,  that  is 
all." 

"  On  the  level,"  he  demanded,  "didn't  that  William 
the  Conker  nor  none  o'  them  ancient  gilt-edges  live 
there?" 

"  No." 

"  Stung  again ! "  He  broke  into  a  sudden  loud 
cackle  of  laughter.  "  Why !  the  feller  tole  me  'at  this 
here  Pigeon  place  was  all  three  rings  when  it  come 
t'  history.  Yessir!  Tall,  thin  feller  he  was,  in  a 
three-button  cutaway,  English  make,  and  kind  of 
red-complected,  with  a  sandy  wms-tache,"  pursued 
the  pedestrian,  apparently  fearing  his  narrative 
might  lack  colour.  "  I  met  him  right  comin'  out  o' 
the  Casino  at  Trouville,  yes'day  aft'noon;  c'udn'  a' 
b'en  more'n  four  o'clock — hoi'  on  though,  yes  'twas, 
'twas  nearer  five,  about  twunty  minutes  t'  five,  say 
— an'  this  feller  tells  me — "  He  cackled  with  laugh- 
[85] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

ter  as  palpably  disingenuous  as  the  corroborative 
details  he  thought  necessary  to  muster;  then  he  be- 
came serious,  as  if  marvelling  at  his  own  wondrous 
verdancy.  "  M*  friend,  that  feller  soitn'y  found  me 
easy.  But  he  can't  say  I  ain't  game;  he  passes  me 
the  limes,  but  I'm  jest  man  enough  to  drink  his 
health  fer  it  in  this  sweet,  sound  ole-fashioned  cider 
'at  ain't  got  a  headache  in  a  barrel  of  it.  He  played 
me  gud,  and  here's  to  him !  " 

Despite  the  heartiness  of  the  sentiment,  my  honest 
tourist's  enthusiasm  seemed  largely  histrionic,  and 
his  quaffing  of  the  beaker  too  reminiscent  of  drain- 
the-wine-cup-free  in  the  second  row  of  the  chorus, 
for  he  absently  allowed  it  to  dangle  from  his  hand 
before  raising  it  to  his  lips.  However,  not  all  of  its 
contents  was  spilled,  and  he  swallowed  a  mouthful 
of  the  sweet,  sound,  old-fashioned  cider — but  by  mis- 
take, I  was  led  to  suppose,  from  the  expression  of 
displeasure  which  became  so  deeply  marked  upon 
his  countenance  as  to  be  noticeable,  even  in  the  feeble 
lamplight. 

I  tarried  no  longer,  but  bidding  this  good  youth 
and  the  generations  of  Baudry  good-night,  hastened 
on  to  my  belated  dinner. 

[86] 


Chapter  Six 

"  Amedee,"  I  said,  when  my  cigar  was  lighted 
and  the  usual  hour  of  consultation  had  arrived; 
"  isn't  that  old  lock  on  the  chest  where  Madame 
Brossard  keeps  her  silver  getting  rather  rusty  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  we  have  no  thieves  here.  We  are  out 
of  the  world." 

"  Yes,  but  Trouville  is  not  so  far  away." 

"  Truly." 

"  Many  strange  people  go  to  Trouville :  grand- 
dukes,  millionaires,  opera  singers,  princes,  jockeys, 
gamblers " 

"Truly,  truly!" 

"  And  tourists,"  I  finished. 

"  That  is  well  known,"  assented  Amedee,  nod- 
ding. 

"  It  follows,"  I  continued  with  the  impressiveness 
of  all  logicians,  "  that  many  strange  people  may 
come  from  Trouville.  In  their  excursions  to  the  sur- 
rounding points  of  interest " 

"  Eh,  monsieur,  but  that  is  true !  "  he  interrupted, 
laying  his  right  forefinger  across  the  bridge  of  his 
nose,  which  was  his  gesture  when  he  remembered  any- 
thing suddenly.  "  There  was  a  strange  monsieur 
from  Trouville  here  this  very  day." 
[87] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  What  kind  of  person  was  he  ?  " 

"  A  foreigner,  but  I  could  not  tell  from  what 
country." 

"  What  time  of  day  was  he  here  ?  "  I  asked,  with 
growing  interest. 

"  Toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  I  was  alone, 
except  for  Glouglou,  when  he  came.  He  wished  to 
see  the  whole  house  and  I  showed  him  what  I  could, 
except  of  course  monsieur's  pavilion,  and  the  Grande 
Suite.  Monsieur  the  Professor  and  that  other  mon- 
sieur had  gone  to  the  forest,  but  I  did  not  feel  at 
liberty  to  exhibit  their  rooms  without  Madame  Bros- 
sard's  permission,  and  she  was  spending  the  day  at 
Dives.  Besides,"  added  the  good  man,  languidly  snap- 
ping a  napkin  at  a  moth  near  one  of  the  candles, 
"  the  doors  were  locked." 

"  This  person  was  a  tourist?  "  I  asked,  after  a 
pause  during  which  Amedee  seemed  peacefully  un- 
aware of  the  rather  concentrated  gaze  I  had  fixed 
upon  him. 

"  Of  a  kind.  In  speaking  he  employed  many  pe- 
culiar expressions,  more  like  a  thief  of  a  Parisian 
cabman  than  of  the  polite  world." 

"  The  devil  he  did !  "  said  I.  "  Did  he  tell  you  why 
[88] 


Chapter  Six 

he  wished  to  see  the  whole  house?  Did  he  contem- 
plate taking  rooms  here  ?  " 

"  No,  monsieur,  it  appears  that  his  interest  was 
historical.  At  first  I  should  not  have  taken  him  for  a 
man  of  learning,  yet  he  gave  me  a  great  piece  of 
information ;  a  thing  quite  new  to  me,  though  I  have 
lived  here  so  many  years.  We  are  distinguished  in 
history,  it  seems,  and  at  one  time  both  William  the 
Conqueror  and  that  brave  Jeanne  d'Arc " 

I  interrupted  sharply,  dropping  my  cigar  and 
leaning  across  the  table: 

"  How  was  this  person  dressed  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  he   was  very  much  the  pedestrian." 

And  so,  for  that  evening,  we  had  something  to 
talk  about  besides  "  that  other  monsieur  " ;  indeed, 
we  found  our  subject  so  absorbing  that  I  forgot 
to  ask  Amedee  whether  it  was  he  or  Jean  Ferret  who 
had  prefixed  the  "  de  "  to  "  Armand." 


[89] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

THE  cat  that  fell  from  the  top  of  the  Wash- 
ington monument,  and  scampered  off  unhurt, 
was  killed  by  a  dog  at  the  next  corner. 
Thus  a  certain  painter-man,  winged  with  canvases 
and  easel,  might  have  been  seen  to  depart  hurriedly 
from  a  poppy-sprinkled  field,  an  infuriated  Norman 
stallion  in  close  attendance,  and  to  fly  safely  over  a 
stone  wall  of  good  height,  only  to  turn  his  ankle 
upon  an  unconsidered  pebble,  some  ten  paces  farther 
on;  the  nose  of  the  stallion  projected  over  the  wall, 
snorting  joy  thereat.  The  ankle  was  one  which  had 
turned  aforetime;  it  was  an  old  weakness:  moreover, 
it  was  mine.  I  was  the  painter-man. 

I  could  count  on  little  less  than  a  week  of  idleness 
within  the  confines  of  Les  Trois  Pigeons;  and  reclin- 
ing among  cushions  in  a  wicker  long-chair  looking 
out  from  my  pavilion  upon  the  drowsy  garden  on 
a  hot  noontide,  I  did  not  much  care.  It  was  cooler 
indoors,  comfortable  enough;  the  open  door  framed 
[90]  t 


Chapter  Seven 

the  courtyard  where  pigeons  were  strutting  on 
the  gravel  walks  between  'flower-beds.  Beyond,  and 
thrown  deeper  into  the  perspective  by  the  outer 
frame  of  the  great  archway,  road  and  fields  and 
forest  fringes  were  revealed,  lying  tremulously  in  the 
hot  sunshine.  The  foreground  gained  a  human 
(though  not  lively)  interest  from  the  ample  figure  of 
our  mditre  d'hotel  reposing  in  a  rustic  chair  which 
had  enjoyed  the  shade  of  an  arbour  about  an  hour 
earlier,  when  first  occupied,  but  now  stood  in  the 
broiling  sun.  At  times  Ame^e's  upper  eyelids  lifted 
as  much  as  the  sixteenth  of  an  inch,  and  he  made  a 
hazy  gesture  as  if  to  wave  the  sun  away,  or,  when 
the  table-cloth  upon  his  left  arm  slid  slowly  earth- 
ward, he  adjusted  it  with  a  petulant  jerk,  without 
material  interruption  to  his  siesta.  Meanwhile  Glou- 
glou,  rolling  and  smoking  cigarettes  in  the  shade  of 
a  clump  of  lilac,  watched  with  button  eyes  the  nod- 
dings  of  his  superior,  and,  at  the  cost  of  some 
convulsive  writhings,  constrained  himself  to  silent 
laughter. 

A  heavy  step  crunched  the  gravel  and  I  heard 
my  name  pronounced  in  a  deep  inquiring  rumble — 
the  voice  of  Professor  Keredec,  no  less.  Nor  was  I 
[91] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

greatly  surprised,  since  our  meeting  in  the  forest 
had  led  me  to  expect  some  advances  on  his  part 
toward  friendliness,  or,  at  least,  in  the  direction  of  a 
better  acquaintance.  However,  I  withheld  my  reply 
for  a  moment  to  make  sure  I  had  heard  aright. 

The  name  was  repeated. 

"  Here  I  am,"  I  called,  "  in  the  pavilion,  if  you 
wish  to  see  me." 

"  Aha !  I  hear  you  become  an  invalid,  my  dear 
sir."  With  that  the  professor's  great  bulk  loomed 
in  the  doorway  against  the  glare  outside.  "  I  have 
come  to  condole  with  you,  if  you  allow  it." 

"  To  smoke  with  me,  too,  I  hope,"  I  said,  not  a 
little  pleased. 

"  That  I  will  do,"  he  returned,  and  came  in  slowly, 
walking  with  perceptible  lameness.  "  The  sympathy 
I  offer  is  genuine:  it  is  not  only  from  the  heart,  it 
is  from  the  latissimus  dorsi,"  he  continued,  seating 
himself  with  a  cavernous  groan.  "  I  am  your  confrere 
in  illness,  my  dear  sir.  I  have  choosed  this  fine  weather 
for  rheumatism  of  the  back." 

"  I  hope  it  is  not  painful?  " 

"  Ha,  it  is  so-sos,"  he  rumbled,  removing  his  spec- 
tacles and  wiping  his  eyes,  dazzled  by  the  sun. 
[92] 


Chapter  Seven 

"  There  is  more  of  me  than  of  most  men — more  to 
suffer.  Nature  was  generous  to  the  little  germs  when 
she  made  this  big  Keredec;  she  offered  them  room 
for  their  campaigns  of  war." 

"  You'll  take  a  cigarette  ?  " 

"  I  thank  you ;  if  you  do  not  mind,  I  smoke  my 
pipe." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  worn  leather  case, 
which  he  opened,  disclosing  a  small,  browned  clay 
bowl  of  the  kind  workmen  use;  and,  fitting  it  with 
a  red  stem,  he  filled  it  with  a  dark  and  sinister  to- 
bacco from  a  pouch.  "  Always  my  pipe  for  me,"  he 
said,  and  applied  a  match,  inhaling  the  smoke  as 
other  men  inhale  the  light  smoke  of  cigarettes.  "  Ha, 
it  is  good!  It  is  wicked  for  the  insides,  but  it  is 
good  for  the  soul."  And  clouds  wreathed  his  great 
beard  like  a  storm  on  Mont  Blanc  as  he  con- 
cluded, with  gusto,  "  It  is  my  first  pipe  since  yes- 
terday." 

"  That  is  being  a  good  smoker,"  I  ventured  sen- 
tentiously ;  "  to  whet  indulgence  with  abstinence." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  he  protested,  "  I  am  a  man  with- 
out even  enough  virtue  to  be  an  epicure.  When  I  am 
alone  I  am  a  chimney  with  no  hebdomadary  repose; 
[93] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

I  smoke  forever.  It  is  on  account  of  my  young  friend 
I  am  temperate  now." 

"  He  has  never  smoked,  your  young  friend?  "  I 
asked,  glancing  at  my  visitor  rather  curiously,  I 
fear. 

"  Mr.  Saffren  has  no  vices."  Professor  Keredec  re- 
placed his  silver-rimmed  spectacles  and  turned  them 
upon  me  with  serene  benevolence.  "  He  is  in  good 
condition,  all  pure,  like  little  children — and  so  if  I 
smoke  near  him  he  chokes  and  has  water  at  the 
eyes,  though  he  does  not  complain.  Just  now  I  take 
a  vacation:  it  is  his  hour  for  study,  but  I  think  he 
looks  more  out  of  the  front  window  than  at  his  book. 
He  looks  very  much  from  the  window  " — there  was 
a  muttering  of  subterranean  thunder  somewhere, 
which  I  was  able  to  locate  in  the  professor's  torso, 
and  took  to  be  his  expression  of  a  chuckle — "  yes, 
very  much,  since  the  passing  of  that  charming  lady 
some  days  ago." 

"  You  say  your  young  friend's  name  is  Saffren  ?  " 

"  Oliver  Saffren."  The  benevolent  gaze  continued 
to  rest  upon  me,  but  a  shadow  like  a  faint  anxiety 
darkened  the  Homeric  brow,  and  an  odd  notion  en- 
tered my  mind  (without  any  good  reason)  that  Pro- 
[94] 


Chapter  Seven 

fessor  Keredec  was  wondering  what  I  thought  of 
the  name.  I  uttered  some  commonplace  syllable  of 
no  moment,  and  there  ensued  a  pause  during  which 
the  seeming  shadow  upon  my  visitor's  forehead  be- 
came a  reality,  deepening  to  a  look  of  perplexity  and 
trouble.  Finally  he  said  abruptly :  "  It  is  about  him 
that  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad,"  I  murmured,  but  he 
brushed  the  callow  formality  aside  with  a  gesture 
of  remonstrance. 

"  Ha,  my  dear  sir,"  he  cried ;  "  but  you  are  a 
man  of  feeling !  We  are  both  old  enough  to  deal  with 
more  than  just  these  little  words  of  the  mouth !  It  was 
the  way  you  have  received  my  poor  young  gentle- 
man's excuses  when  he  was  go  rude,  which  make  me 
wish  to  talk  with  you  on  such  a  subject;  it  is  why 
I  would  not  have  you  believe  Mr.  Saffren  and  me 
two  very  suspected  individuals  who  hide  here  like 
two  bad  criminals !  " 

"  No,  no,"  I  protested  hastily.  "  The  name  of 
Professor  Keredec " 

"  The  name  of  no  man,"  he  thundered,  interrupt- 
ing, "  can  protect  his  reputation  when  he  is  caught 
peeping  from  a  curtain!  Ha,  my  dear  sir!  I  know 
[95] 


The  Guesi  of  Quesnay 

what  you  think.  You  think,  '  He  is  a  nice  fine  man, 
that  old  professor,  oh,  very  nice — only  he  hides 
behind  the  curtains  sometimes!  Very  fine  man, 
oh,  yes;  only  he  is  a  spy.'  Eh?  Ha,  ha!  That  is 
what  you  have  been  thinking,  my  dear  sir ! " 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  laughed ;  "  I  thought  you  might 
fear  that  I  was  a  spy." 

"Eh?"  He  became  sharply  serious  upon  the  in- 
stant. "  What  made  you  think  that  ?  " 

"  I  supposed  you  might  be  conducting  some  ex- 
periments, or  perhaps  writing  a  book  which  you 
wished  to  keep  from  the  public  for  a  time,  and 
that  possibly  you  might  imagine  that  I  was  a 
reporter." 

"  So !  And  that  is  all,"  he  returned,  with  evident 
relief.  "  No,  my  dear  sir,  I  was  the  spy ;  it  is  the 
truth;  and  I  was  spying  upon  you.  I  confess 
my  shame.  I  wish  very  much  to  know  what  you 
were  like,  what  kind  of  a  man  you  are.  And  so," 
he  concluded  with  an  opening  of  the  hands,  palms 
upward,  as  if  to  show  that  nothing  remained  for 
concealment,  "  and  so  I  have  watched  you." 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"  The  explanation  is  so  simple :  it  was  necessary." 
[96] 


Chapter  Seven 

"  Because  of — of  Mr.  Saff ren  ?  "  I  said  slowly, 
and  with  some  trepidation. 

"  Precisely."  The  professor  exhaled  a  cloud  of 
smoke.  "  Because  I  am  sensitive  for  him,  and  because 
in  a  certain  way  I  am — how  should  it  be  said? — per- 
haps it  is  near  the  truth  to  say,  I  am  his  guardian." 

"  I  see." 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  rej  oined  quickly,  "  but  I  am 
afraid  you  do  not  see.  I  am  not  his  guardian  by 
the  law." 

"  I  had  not  supposed  that  you  were,"  I  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because,  though  he  puzzled  me  and  I  do  not 
understand  his — his  case,  so  to  speak,  I  have  not 
for  a  moment  thought  him  insane." 

"  Ha,  my  dear  sir,  you  are  right ! "  exclaimed 
Keredec,  beaming  on  me,  much  pleased.  "  You  are 
a  thousand  times  right;  he  is  as  sane  as  yourself  or 
myself  or  as  anybody  in  the  whole  wide  world!  Ha! 
he  is  now  much  more  sane,  for  his  mind  is  not  yet 
confused  and  becobwebbed  with  the  useless  things 
you  and  I  put  into  ours.  It  is  open  and  clear  like 
the  little  children's  mind.  And  it  is  a  good  mind! 
It  is  only  a  little  learning,  a  little  experience,  that 
[97] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

he  lacks.  A  few  months  more — ha,  at  the  greatest, 
a  year  from  now — and  he  will  not  be  different  any 
longer ;  he  will  be  like  the  rest  of  us.  Only  "  — the 
professor  leaned  forward  and  his  big  fist  came  down 
on  the  arm  of  his  chair — "  he  shall  be  better  than 
the  rest  of  us !  But  if  strange  people  were  to  see 
him  now,"  he  continued,  leaning  back  and  dropping 
his  voice  to  a  more  confidential  tone,  "  it  would  not 
do.  This  poor  world  is  full  of  fools;  there  are  so 
many  who  judge  quickly.  If  they  should  see  him 
now,  they  might  think  he  is  not  just  right  in  his 
brain ;  and  then,  as  it  could  happen  so  easily,  those 
same  people  might  meet  him  again  after  a  while. 
*  Ha,'  they  would  say,  *  there  was  a  time  when  that 
young  man  was  insane.  I  knew  him ! '  And  so  he 
might  go  through  his  life  with  those  clouds  over 
him.  Those  clouds  are  black  clouds,  they  can  make 
more  harm  than  our  old  sins,  and  I  wish  to  save 
my  friend  from  them.  So  I  have  brought  him  here 
to  this  quiet  place  where  nobody  comes,  and  we  can 
keep  from  meeting  any  foolish  people.  But,  my  dear 
sir  " — he  leaned  forward  again,  and  spoke  emphatic- 
ally— "  it  would  be  barbarous  for  men  of  intelligence 
to  live  in  the  same  house  and  go  always  hiding 
[98] 


Chapter  Seven 

from  one  another !  Let  us  dine  together  this  evening, 
if  you  will,  and  not  only  this  evening  but  every 
evening  you  are  willing  to  share  with  us  and  do 
not  wish  to  be  alone.  It  will  be  good  for  us.  We 
are  three  men  like  hermits,  far  out  of  the  world, 
but — a  thousand  saints! — let  us  be  civilised  to  one 
another ! " 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  I  said. 

"  Ha !  I  wish  you  to  know  my  young  man,"  Kere- 
dec  went  on.  "  You  will  like  him — no  man  of  feeling 
could  keep  himself  from  liking  him — and  he  is  your 
fellow-countryman.  I  hope  you  will  be  his  friend. 
He  should  make  friends,  for  he  needs  them." 

"  I  think  he  has  a  host  of  them,"  said  I,  "  in 
Professor  Keredec." 

My  visitor  looked  at  me  quizzically  for  a  moment, 
shook  his  head  and  sighed.  "  That  is  only  one  small 
man  in  a  big  body,  that  Professor  Keredec.  And 
yet,"  he  went  on  sadly,  "  it  is  all  the  friends  that 
poor  boy  has  in  this  world.  You  will  dine  with  us 
to-night?" 

Acquiescing  cheerfully,  I  added:  "You  will  join 
me  at  the  table  on  my  veranda,  won't  you?  I  can 
hobble  that  far  but  not  much  farther." 
[99] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

Before  answering  he  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  the 
arrangement  of  things  outside  the  door.  The  screen 
of  honeysuckle  ran  partly  across  the  front  of  the 
little  porch,  about  half  of  which  it  concealed  from 
the  garden  and  consequently  from  the  road  beyond 
the  archway.  I  saw  that  he  took  note  of  this  before 
he  pointed  to  that  corner  of  the  veranda  most  closely 
screened  by  the  vines  and  said: 

"  May  the  table  be  placed  yonder  ?  " 

"  Certainly ;  I  often  have  it  there,  even  when  I 
am  alone." 

"  Ha,  that  is  good,"  he  exclaimed.  "  It  is  not 
human  for  a  Frenchman  to  eat  in  the  house  in  good 
weather." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  I  said,  "  that  I  should  have  been 
such  a  bugbear." 

This  remark  was  thoroughly  disingenuous,  for, 
although  I  did  not  doubt  that  anything  he  told 
me  was  perfectly  true,  nor  that  he  had  made  as 
complete  a  revelation  as  he  thought  consistent  with 
his  duty  toward  the  young  man  in  his  charge,  I 
did  not  believe  that  his  former  precautions  were 
altogether  due  to  my  presence  at  the  inn. 

And  I  was  certain  that  while  he  might  fear  for 
[100], 


Chapter  Seven 

his  friend  some  chance  repute  of  insanity,  he  had 
greater  terrors  than  that.  As  to  their  nature  I  had 
no  clew;  nor  was  it  my  affair  to  be  guessing;  but 
whatever  they  were,  the  days  of  security  at  Les 
Trois  Pigeons  had  somewhat  eased  Professor  Kere- 
dec's  mind  in  regard  to  them.  At  least,  his  anxiety 
was  sufficiently  assuaged  to  risk  dining  out  of  doors 
with  only  my  screen  of  honeysuckle  between  his 
charge  and  curious  eyes.  So  much  was  evident. 

"  The  reproach  is  deserved,"  he  returned,  after  a 
pause.  "  It  is  to  be  wished  that  all  our  bugbears 
might  offer  as  pleasant  a  revelation,  if  we  had  the 
courage,  or  the  slyness  " — he  laughed — "  to  investi- 
gate them." 

I  made  a  reply  of  similar  gallantry  and  he  got 
to  his  feet,  rubbing  his  back  as  he  rose. 

"  Ha,  I  am  old !  old !  Rheumatism  in  warm  weather : 
that  is  ugly.  Now  I  must  go  to  my  boy  and  see  what 
he  can  make  of  his  Gibbon.  The  poor  fellow !  I  think 
he  finds  the  decay  of  Rome  worse  than  rheumatism 
in  summer ! " 

He  replaced  his  pipe  in  its  case,  and  promising 
heartily  that  it  should  not  be  the  last  he  would 
smoke  in  my  company  and  domain,  was  making 
[101] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

slowly  for  the  door  when  he  paused  at  a  sound  from 
the  road. 

We  heard  the  rapid  hoof-beats  of  a  mettled  horse. 
He  crossed  our  vision  and  the  open  archway :  a  high- 
stepping  hackney  going  well,  driven  by  a  lady  in  a 
light  trap  which  was  half  full  of  wild  flowers.  It 
was  a  quick  picture,  like  a  flash  of  the  cinemato- 
graph, but  the  pose  of  the  lady  as  a  driver  was  seen 
to  be  of  a  commanding  grace,  and  though  she  was 
not  in  white  but  in  light  blue,  and  her  plain  sailor 
hat  was  certainly  not  trimmed  with  roses,  I  had  not 
the  least  difficulty  in  recognising  her.  At  the  same 
instant  there  was  a  hurried  clatter  of  footsteps  upon 
the  stairway  leading  from  the  gallery;  the  startled 
pigeons  fluttered  up  from  the  garden-path,  betaking 
themselves  to  flight,  and  "  that  other  monsieur " 
came  leaping  across  the  courtyard,  through  the  arch- 
way and  into  the  road. 

"  Glouglou !  Look  quickly ! "  he  called  loudly,  in 
French,  as  he  came ;  "  Who  is  that  lady  ?  " 

Glouglou  would  have  replied,  but  the  words  were 

taken  out  of  his  mouth.  Amedee  awoke  with  a  frantic 

start  and  launched  himself  at  the  archway,  carrom- 

ing  from  its  nearest  corner  and  hurtling  onward  at 

[102] 


Chapter  Seven 

a  speed  which  for  once  did  not  diminish  in  propor- 
tion to  his  progress. 

"  That  lady,  monsieur  ?  "  he  gasped,  checking  him- 
self at  the  young  man's  side  and  gazing  after  the 
trap,  "  that  is  Madame  d'Armand." 

"  Madame  d'Armand,"  Saffren  repeated  the  name 
slowly.  "  Her  name  is  Madame  d'Armand." 

"  Yes,  monsieur,"  said  Amedee  complacently ;  "  it 
is  an  American  lady  who  has  married  a  French  noble- 
man." 


[103] 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

EIE  most  painters,  I  have  supposed  the 
tools  of  my  craft  harder  to  manipulate  than 
those  of  others.  The  use  of  words,  particu- 
larly, seemed  readier,  handier  for  the  contrivance  of 
effects  than  pigments.  I  thought  the  language  of 
words  less  elusive  than  that  of  colour,  leaving  smaller 
margin  for  unintended  effects ;  and,  believing  in  com- 
placent good  faith  that  words  conveyed  exact  mean- 
ings exactly,  it  was  my  innocent  conception  that 
almost  anything  might  be  so  described  in  words  that 
all  who  read  must  inevitably  perceive  that  thing  pre- 
cisely. If  this  were  true,  there  would  be  little  work 
for  the  lawyers,  who  produce  such  tortured  pages 
in  the  struggle  to  be  definite,  who  swing  riches  from 
one  family  to  another,  save  men  from  violent  death 
or  send  them  to  it,  and  earn  fortunes  for  themselves 
through  the  dangerous  inadequacies  of  words.  I  have 
learned  how  great  was  my  mistake,  and  now  I  am 
wishing  I  could  shift  paper  for  canvas,  that  I  might 
[104] 


Chapter  Eight 

paint  the  young  man  who  came  to  interest  me  so 
deeply.  I  wish  I  might  present  him  here  in  colour 
instead  of  trusting  to  this  unstable  business  of 
words,  so  wily  and  undependable,  with  their  shim- 
mering values,  that  you  cannot  turn  your  back  upon 
them  for  two  minutes  but  they  will  be  shouting  a 
hundred  things  which  they  were  not  meant  to  tell. 

To  make  the  best  of  necessity :  what  I  have  written 
of  him — my  first  impressions — must  be  taken  as  the 
picture,  although  it  be  but  a  gossamer  sketch  in  the 
air,  instead  of  definite  work  with  well-ground  pig- 
ments to  show  forth  a  portrait,  to  make  you  see 
flesh  and  blood.  It  must  take  the  place  of  something 
contrived  with  my  own  tools  to  reveal  what  the  fol- 
lowing days  revealed  him  to  me,  and  what  it  was 
about  him  (evasive  of  description)  which  made  me 
so  soon,  as  Keredec  wished,  his  friend. 

Life  among  our  kin  and  kind  is  made  pleasanter  by 
our  daily  platitudes.  Who  is  more  tedious  than  the 
man  incessantly  struggling  to  avoid  the  banal?  Na- 
ture rules  that  such  a  one  will  produce  nothing 
better  than  epigram  and  paradox,  saying  old,  old 
things  in  a  new  way,  or  merely  shifting  object  for 
subject, — and  his  wife's  face,  when  he  shines  for  a 
[105] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

circle,  is  worth  a  glance.  With  no  further  apology, 
I  declare  that  I  am  a  person  who  has  felt  few  posi- 
tive likes  or  dislikes  for  people  in  this  life,  and  I  did 
deeply  like  my  fellow-lodgers  at  Let  Trois  Pigeons. 
Liking  for  both  men  increased  with  acquaintance, 
and  for  the  younger  I  came  to  feel,  in  addition,  a 
kind  of  championship,  doubtless  in  some  measure  due 
to  what  Keredec  had  told  me  of  him,  but  more  to 
that  half-humourous  sense  of  protectiveness  that  we 
always  have  for  those  young  people  whose  untem- 
pered  and  innocent  outlook  makes  us  feel,  as  we  say, 
"  a  thousand  years  old." 

The  afternoon  following  our  first  dinner  together, 
the  two,  on  returning  from  their  walk,  came  into  the 
pavilion  with  cheerful  greetings,  instead  of  going 
to  their  rooms  as  usual,  and  Keredec,  declaring  that 
the  open  air  had  "  dispersed  "  his  rheumatism,  asked 
if  he  might  overhaul  some  of  my  little  canvases  and 
boards.  I  explained  that  they  consisted  mainly  of 
"  notes  "  for  future  use,  but  consented  willingly ; 
whereupon  he  arranged  a  number  of  them  as  for  ex- 
hibition and  delivered  himself  impromptu  of  the  most 
vehemently  instructive  lecture  on  art  I  had  ever 
heard.  Beginning  with  the  family,  the  tribe,  and 
[106] 


Chapter  Eight 

the  totem-pole,  he  was  able  to  demonstrate  a  theory 
that  art  was  not  only  useful  to  society  but  its  pri- 
mary necessity;  a  curious  thought,  probably  more 
attributable  to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  Frenchman 
than  to  that  of  his  being  a  scientist. 

"  And  here,"  he  said  in  the  course  of  his  demon- 
stration, pointing  to  a  sketch  which  I  had  made 
one  morning  just  after  sunrise, — "  here  you  can  see 
real  sunshine.  One  certain  day  there  came  those  few 
certain  moment'  at  the  sunrise  when  the  light  was 
like  this.  Those  few  moment',  where  are  they?  They 
have  disappeared,  gone  for  eternally.  They  went  " 
— he  snapped  his  fingers — "  like  that.  Yet  here  they 
are — ha ! — forever !  " 

"  But  it  doesn't  look  like  sunshine,"  said  Oliver 
Saffren  hesitatingly,  stating  a  disconcerting  but  in- 
controvertible truth ;  "  it  only  seems  to  look  like  it 
because — isn't  it  because  it's  so  much  brighter  than 
the  rest  of  the  picture?  I  doubt  if  paint  can  look 
like  sunshine."  He  turned  from  the  sketch,  caught 
Keredec's  gathering  frown,  and  his  face  flushed  pain- 
fully. "  Ah!  "  he  cried,  "  I  shouldn't  have  said  it?  " 

I  interposed  to  reassure  him,  exclaiming  that  it 
were  a  godsend  indeed,  did  all  our  critics  merely 
[107] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

speak  the  plain  truth  as  they  see  it  for  them- 
selves. The  professor  would  not  have  it  so,  and  cut 
me  off. 

"  No,  no,  no,  my  dear  sir !  "  he  shouted.  "  You 
speak  with  kindness,  but  you  put  some  wrong  ideas 
in  his  head !  " 

Saffren's  look  of  trouble  deepened.  "  I  don't  un- 
derstand," he  murmured.  "  I  thought  you  said  al- 
ways to  speak  the  truth  just  as  I  see  it." 

"  I  have  telled  you,"  Keredec  declared  vehemently, 
"  nothing  of  the  kind !  " 

"  But  only  yesterday " 

"Never!" 

"I  understood " 

"  Then  you  understood  only  one-half !  I  say, 
'  Speak  the  truth  as  you  see  it,  when  you  speak.' 
I  did  not  tell  you  to  speak!  How  much  time  have 
you  give'  to  study  sunshine  and  paint?  What  do 
you  know  about  them  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  other  humbly. 

A  profound  rumbling  was  heard,  and  the  frown 

disappeared  from  Professor  Keredec's  brow  like  the 

vanishing  of  the  shadow  of  a  little  cloud  from  the 

dome  of  some  great  benevolent  and  scientific  insti- 

[108] 


Chapter  Eight 

tute.  He  dropped  a  weighty  hand  on  his  young 
friend's  shoulder,  and,  in  high  good-humour,  thun- 
dered : 

"  Then  you  are  a  critic !  Knowing  nothing  of 
sunshine  except  that  it  warms  you,  and  never  having 
touched  paint,  you  are  going  to  tell  about  them 
to  a  man  who  spends  his  life  studying  them!  You 
look  up  in  the  night  and  the  truth  you  see  is  that 
the  moon  and  stars  are  crossing  the  ocean.  You  will 
tell  that  to  the  astronomer?  Ha!  The  truth  is  what 
the  masters  see.  When  you  know  what  they  see,  you 
may  speak." 

At  dinner  the  night  before,  it  had  struck  me  that 
Saffren  was  a  rather  silent  young  man  by  habit,  and 
now  I  thought  I  began  to  understand  the  reason. 
I  hinted  as  much,  saying,  "  That  would  make  a  quiet 
world  of  it." 

"  All  the  better,  my  dear  sir ! "  The  professor 
turned  beamingly  upon  me  and  continued,  dropping 
into  a  Whistlerian  mannerism  that  he  had  sometimes : 
"  You  must  not  blame  that  great  wind  of  a  Keredec 
for  preaching  at  other  people  to  listen.  It  gives 
the  poor  man  more  room  for  himself  to  talk ! " 

I  found  his  talk  worth  hearing. 
[109] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

I  frould  show  you,  if  I  could,  our  pleasant  even- 
ings of  lingering,  after  coffee,  behind  the  tremulous 
screen  of  honeysuckle,  with  the  night  very  dark  and 
quiet  beyond  the  warm  nimbus  of  our  candle-light, 
the  faces  of  my  two  companions  clear-obscure  in  a 
mellow  shadow  like  the  middle  tones  of  a  Rembrandt, 
and  the  professor,  good  man,  talking  wonderfully 
of  everything  under  the  stars  and  over  them, — 
while  Oliver  Saffren  and  I  sat  under  the  spell  of  the 
big,  kind  voice,  the  young  man  listening  with  the 
same  eagerness  which  marked  him  when  he  spoke. 
It  was  an  eagerness  to  understand,  not  to  in- 
terrupt. 

These  were  our  evenings.  In  the  afternoons  the 
two  went  for  their  walk  as  usual,  though  now  they 
did  not  plunge  out  of  sight  of  the  main  road  with 
the  noticeable  haste  which  Amedee  had  described. 
As  time  pressed,  I  perceived  the  caution  of  Keredec 
visibly  slackening.  Whatever  he  had  feared,  the  ob- 
scurity and  continued  quiet  of  Les  Trois  Pigeons 
reassured  him;  he  felt  more  and  more  secure  in  this 
sheltered  retreat,  "  far  out  of  the  world,"  and  ob- 
viously thought  no  danger  imminent.  So  the  days 
went  by,  uneventful  for  my  new  friends, — days  of 
[110] 


Chapter  Eight 

warm  idleness  for  me.  Let  them  go  unnarrated;  we 
pass  to  the  event. 

My  ankle  had  taken  its  wonted  time  to  recover. 
I  was  on  my  feet  again  and  into  the  woods — not 
traversing,  on  the  way,  a  certain  poppy-sprinkled 
field  whence  a  fine  Norman  stallion  snorted  ridicule 
over  a  wall.  But  the  fortune  of  Keredec  was  to 
sink  as  I  rose.  His  summer  rheumatism  returned, 
came  to  grips  with  him,  laid  him  low.  We  hobbled 
together  for  a  day  or  so,  then  I  threw  away  my 
stick  and  he  exchanged  his  for  an  improvised  crutch. 
By  the  time  I  was  fit  to  run,  he  was  able  to  do 
little  better  than  to  creep — might  well  have  taken  to 
his  bed.  But  as  he  insisted  that  his  pupil  should 
not  forego  the  daily  long  walks  and  the  health  of 
the  forest,  it  came  to  pass  that  Saffren  often  made 
me  the  objective  of  his  rambles.  At  dinner  he  usually 
asked  in  what  portion  of  the  forest  I  should  be  paint- 
ing late  the  next  afternoon,  and  I  got  in  the  habit 
of  expecting  him  to  join  me  toward  sunset.  We 
located  each  other  through  a  code  of  yodeling  that 
we  arranged;  his  part  of  these  vocal  gymnastics 
being  very  pleasant  to  hear,  for  he  had  a  flexible, 
[111] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

rich  voice.  I  shudder  to  recall  how  largely  my  own 
performances  partook  of  the  grotesque.  But  in  the 
forest  where  were  no  musical  persons  (I  supposed) 
to  take  hurt  from  whatever  noise  I  made,  I  would 
let  go  with  all  the  lungs  I  had;  he  followed  the 
horrid  sounds  to  their  origin,  and  we  would  return 
to  the  inn  together. 

On  these  homeward  walks  I  found  him  a  good 
companion,  and  that  is  something  not  to  be  under- 
valued by  a  selfish  man  who  lives  for  himself  and 
his  own  little  ways  and  his  own  little  thoughts,  and 
for  very  little  else, — which  is  the  kind  of  man  (as  I 
have  already  confessed)  that  I  was — deserving  the 
pity  of  all  happily  or  unhappily  married  persons. 

Responsive  in  kind  to  either  a  talkative  mood  or 
a  silent  one,  always  gentle  in  manner,  and  always 
unobtrusively  melancholy,  Saffren  never  took  the  ini- 
tiative, though  now  and  then  he  asked  a  question 
about  some  rather  simple  matter  which  might  be 
puzzling  him.  Whatever  the  answer,  he  usually  re- 
ceived it  in  silence,  apparently  turning  the  thing 
over  and  over  and  inside  out  in  his  mind.  He  was 
almost  tremulously  sensitive,  yet  not  vain,  for  he 
was  neither  afraid  nor  ashamed  to  expose  his  igno- 


Chapter  Eight 

ranee,  his  amazing  lack  of  experience.  He  had  a 
greater  trouble,  one  that  I  had  not  fathomed.  Some- 
times there  came  over  his  face  a  look  of  importunate 
wistfulness  and  distressed  perplexity,  and  he  seemed 
on  the  point  of  breaking  out  with  something  that 
he  wished  to  tell  me — or  to  ask  me,  for  it  might 
have  been  a  question — but  he  always  kept  it  back. 
Keredec's  training  seldom  lost  its  hold  upon  him. 

I  had  gone  back  to  my  glade  again,  and  to  the 
thin  sunshine,  which  came  a  little  earlier,  now  that 
we  were  deep  in  July;  and  one  afternoon  I  sat  in 
the  mouth  of  the  path,  just  where  I  had  played  the 
bounding  harlequin  for  the  benefit  of  the  lovely  vis- 
itor at  Quesnay.  It  was  warm  in  the  woods  and  quiet, 
warm  with  the  heat  of  July,  still  with  a  July  still- 
ness. The  leaves  had  no  motion ;  if  there  were  birds 
or  insects  within  hearing  they  must  have  been  asleep ; 
the  quivering  flight  of  a  butterfly  in  that  languid 
air  seemed,  by  contrast,  quite  a  commotion;  a  hum- 
ming-bird would  have  made  a  riot. 

I  heard  the  light  snapping  of  a  twig  and  a  swisK 

of  branches  from  the  direction   in  which  I  faced; 

evidently    some    one    was    approaching    the    glade, 

though  concealed  from  me  for  the  moment  by  the 

[113] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

winding  of  the  path.  Taking  it  for  Saffren,  as  a 
matter  of  course  (for  we  had  arranged  to  meet  at 
that  time  and  place),  I  raised  my  voice  in  what  I 
intended  for  a  merry  yodel  of  greeting. 

I  yodeled  loud,  I  yodeled  long.  Knowing  my  own 
deficiencies  in  this  art,  I  had  adopted  the  cunning 
sinner's  policy  toward  sin  and  made  a  joke  of  it: 
thus,  since  my  best  performance  was  not  unsugges- 
tive  of  calamity  in  the  poultry  yard,  I  made  it 
worse.  And  then  and  there,  when  my  mouth  was  at 
its  widest  in  the  production  of  these  shocking  ulla- 
hootings,  the  person  approaching  came  round  a  turn 
in  the  path,  and  within  full  sight  of  me.  To  my 
ultimate,  utmost  horror,  it  was  Madame  d'Armand. 

I  grew  so  furiously  red  that  it  burned  me.  I  had 
not  the  courage  to  run,  though  I  could  have  prayed 
that  she  might  take  me  for  what  I  seemed — plainly 
a  lunatic,  whooping  the  lonely  peace  of  the  woods 
into  pandemonium — and  turn  back.  But  she  kept 
straight  on,  must  inevitably  reach  the  glade  and 
cross  it,  and  I  calculated  wretchedly  that  at  the  rate 
she  was  walking,  unhurried  but  not  lagging,  it 
would  be  about  thirty  seconds  before  she  passed  me. 
Then  suddenly,  while  I  waited  in  sizzling  shame,  a 
[114] 


Chapter  Eight 

clear  voice  rang  out  from  a  distance  in  an  answer- 
ing yodel  to  mine,  and  I  thanked  heaven  for  its 
mercies;  at  least  she  would  see  that  my  antics  had 
some  reason. 

She  stopped  short,  in  a  half-step,  as  if  a  little 
startled,  one  arm  raised  to  push  away  a  thin  green 
branch  that  crossed  the  path  at  shoulder-height; 
and  her  attitude  was  so  charming  as  she  paused, 
detained  to  listen  by  this  other  voice  with  its  musi- 
cal youthfulness,  that  for  a  second  I  thought  cross- 
ly of  all  the  young  men  in  the  world. 

There  was  a  final  call,  clear  and  loud  as  a  bugle, 
and  she  turned  to  the  direction  whence  it  came,  so 
that  her  back  was  toward  me.  Then  Oliver  Saffren 
came  running  lightly  round  the  turn  of  the  patti, 
near  her  and  facing  her. 

He  stopped  as  short  as  she  had. 

Her  hand  dropped  from  the  slender  branch,  and 
pressed  against  her  side. 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  spoke  to  her,  and  I  thought 
she  made  some  quick  reply  in  a  low  voice,  though  I 
could  not  be  sure. 

She  held  that  startled  attitude  a  moment  longer, 
then  turned  and  crossed  the  glade  so  hurriedly  that 
[115] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

it  was  almost  as  if  she  ran  away  from  him.  I  had 
moved  aside  with  my  easel  and  camp-stool,  but  she 
passed  close  to  me  as  she  entered  the  path  again 
on  my  side  of  the  glade.  She  did  not  seem  to  see  me, 
her  dark  eyes  stared  widely  straight  ahead,  her  lips 
were  parted,  and  she  looked  white  and  frightened. 
She  disappeared  very  quickly  in  the  windings  of 
the  path. 


[116] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

HE  came  on  more  slowly,  his  eyes  follow- 
ing her  as  she  vanished,  then  turning  to 
me  with  a  rather  pitiful  apprehension — a 
look  like  that  I  remember  to  have  seen  (some  hun- 
dreds of  years  ago)  on  the  face  of  a  freshman, 
glancing  up  from  his  book  to  find  his  doorway  omi- 
nously filling  with  sophomores. 

I  stepped  out  to  meet  him,  indignant  upon  several 
counts,  most  of  all  upon  his  own.  I  knew  there  was 
no  offence  in  his  heart,  not  the  remotest  rude  intent, 
but  the  fact  was  before  me  that  he  had  frightened 
a  woman,  had  given  this  very  lovely  guest  of  my 
friends  good  cause  to  hold  him  a  boor,  if  she  did  not, 
indeed,  think  him  (as  she  probably  thought  me) 
an  outright  lunatic!  I  said: 

"  You  spoke  to  that  lady !  "  And  my  voice  sounded 
unexpectedly  harsh  and  sharp  to  my  own  ears,  for  I 
had  meant  to  speak  quietly. 

"  I  know — I  know.  It — it  was  wrong,"  he  stam- 
mered. "  I  knew  I  shouldn't — and  I  couldn't  help  it." 
[117] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  You  expect  me  to  believe  that  ?  " 

"It's  the  truth;  I  couldn't!" 

I  laughed  sceptically;  and  he  flinched,  but  re- 
peated that  what  he  had  said  was  only  the  truth. 
"  I  don't  understand ;  it  was  all  beyond  me,"  he 
added  huskily. 

"  What  was  it  you  said  to  her?  " 

"  I  spoke  her  name—'  Madame  d'Armand.' ' 

"  You  said  more  than  that !  " 

'*  I  asked  her  if  she  would  let  me  see  her  again." 

"What  else?" 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered  humbly.  "  And  then  she 
— then  for  a  moment  it  seemed — for  a  moment  she 
didn't  seem  to  be  able  to  speak " 

*'  I  should  think  not ! "  I  shouted,  and  burst  out 
at  him  with  satirical  laughter?  He  stood  patiently 
enduring  it,  his  lowered  eyes  following  the  aimless 
movements  of  his  hands,  which  were  twisting  and 
untwisting  his  flexible  straw  hat ;  and  it  might  have 
struck  me  as  nearer  akin  to  tragedy  rather  than  to 
a  thing  for  laughter:  this  spectacle  of  a  grown  man 
so  like  a  schoolboy  before  the  master,  shamefaced 
over  a  stammered  confession. 

"  But  she  did  say  something  to  you,  didn't  she?  " 
[118] 


CJiaptcr  Nine 

I    asked   finally,    with    the    gentleness    of    a    cross- 
examining  lawyer. 

"  Yes — after  that  moment." 

"Well,  what  was  it?" 

"  She  said,  «  Not  now ! '  That  was  all." 

"  I  suppose  that  was  all  she  had  breath  for !  It 
was  just  the  inconsequent  and  meaningless  thing  a 
frightened  woman  would  say !  " 

"  Meaningless  ?  "  he  repeated,  and  looked  up  won- 
deringly. 

"  Did  you  take  it  for  an  appointment  ?  "  I  roared, 
quite  out  of  patience,  and  losing  my  temper  com- 
pletely. 

"  No,  no,  no !  She  said  only  that,  and  then " 

"  Then  she  turned  and  ran  away  from  you ! " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  swallowing  painfully. 

"  That  pleased  you,"  I  stormed,  "  to  frighten  a 
woman  in  the  woods — to  make  her  feel  that  she  can't 
walk  here  in  safety!  You  enjoy  doing  things  like 
that?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  disconcerting  steadiness  for 
a  moment,  and,  without  offering  any  other  response, 
turned  aside,  resting  his  arm  against  the  trunk  of 
a  tree  and  gazing  into  the  quiet  forest. 
[119] 


Guest  of  Quesnay 

I  set  about  packing  my  traps,  grumbling  various 
sarcasms,  the  last  mutterings  of  a  departed  storm, 
for  already  I  realised  that  I  had  taken  out  my  own 
mortification  upon  him,  and  I  was  stricken  with  re- 
morse. And  yet,  so  contrarily  are  we  made,  I  con- 
tinued to  be  unkind  while  in  my  heart  I  was  asking 
pardon  of  him.  I  tried  to  make  my  reproaches  gen- 
tler, to  lend  my  voice  a  hint  of  friendly  humour, 
but  in  spite  of  me  the  one  sounded  gruffer  and  the 
other  sourer  with  everything  I  said.  This  was  the 
worse  because  of  the  continued  silence  of  the  victim: 
he  did  not  once  answer,  nor  by  the  slightest  move- 
ment alter  his  attitude  until  I  had  finished — and 
more  than  finished. 

"  There — and  that's  all ! "  I  said  desperately, 
when  the  things  were  strapped  and  I  had  slung  them 
to  my  shoulder.  "  Let's  be  off,  in  heaven's  name ! " 

At  that  he  turned  quickly  toward  me;  it  did  not 
lessen  my  remorse  to  see  that  he  had  grown  very 
pale. 

"I  wouldn't  have  frightened  her  for  the  world," 
he  said,  and  his  voice  and  his  whole  body  shook  with 
a  strange  violence.  "  I  wouldn't  have  frightened  her 
to  please  the  angels  in  heaven ! " 
[120] 


Chapter  Nine 

A  blunderer  whose  incantation  had  brought  the 
spirit  up  to  face  me,  I  stared  at  him  helplessly,  nor 
could  I  find  words  to  answer  or  control  the  passion 
that  my  imbecile  scolding  had  evoked.  Whatever  the 
barriers  Keredec's  training  had  built  for  his  pro- 
tection, they  were  down  now. 

"You  think  I  told  a  lie!"  he  cried.  "You  think 
I  lied  when  I  said  I  couldn't  help  speaking  to  her ! " 

"  No,  no,"  I  said  earnestly.  "  I  didn't  mean " 

"  Words ! "  he  swept  the  feeble  protest  away, 
drowned  in  a  whirling  vehemence.  "  And  what  does 
it  matter?  You  can't  understand.  When  you  want 
to  know  what  to  do,  you  look  back  into  your  life 
and  it  tells  you ;  and  I  look  back — ah!  "  He  cried 
out,  uttering  a  half-choked,  incoherent  syllable.  "  I 
look  back  and  it's  all — BLIND  !  All  these  things  you 
can  do  and  can't  do — all  these  infinite  little  things! 
You  know,  and  Keredec  knows,  and  Glouglou  knows, 
and  every  mortal  soul  on  earth  knows — but  /  don't 
know!  Your  life  has  taught  you,  and  you  know, 
but  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  had  my  life.  It's  gone! 
All  I  have  is  words  that  Keredec  has  said  to  me,  and 
it's  like  a  man  with  no  eyes,  out  in  the  sunshine 
hunting  for  the  light.  Do  you  think  words  can 
[121] 


The  Guest  of  Qiiesnay 

teach  you  to  resist  such  impulses  as  I  had  when  I 
spoke  to  Madame  d'Armand?  Can  life  itself  teach 
you  to  resist  them?  Perhaps  you  never  had  them?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  answered  honestly. 

"  I  would  burn  my  hand  from  my  arm  and  my 
arm  from  my  body,"  he  went  on,  with  the  same 
wild  intensity,  "  rather  than  trouble  her  or  frighten 
her,  but  I  couldn't  help  speaking  to  her  any  more 
than  I  can  help  wanting  to  see  her  again — the  feeling 
that  I  must — whatever  you  say  or  do,  whatever  Ke- 
redec  says  or  does,  whatever  the  whole  world  may  say 
or  do.  And  I  will !  It  isn't  a  thing  to  choose  to  do,  or 
not  to  do.  I  can't  help  it  any  more  than  I  can  help 
being  alive !  " 

He  paused,  wiping  from  his  brow  a  heavy  dew 
not  of  the  heat,  but  like  that  on  the  forehead 
of  a  man  in  crucial  pain.  I  made  nervous  haste 
to  seize  the  opportunity,  and  said  gently,  almost 
timidly : 

"But  if  it  should  distress  the  lady?" 

"  Yes — then  I  could  keep  away.  But  I  must  know 
that." 

"  I  think  you  might  know  it  by  her  running  away 
— and  by  her  look,"  I  said  mildly.  "  Didn't  you?  " 
[122] 


Chapter  Nine 

"  No!  "  And  his  eyes  flashed  an  added  emphasis. 

"  Well,  well,"  I  said,  "  let's  be  on  our  way,  or 
the  professor  will  be  wondering  if  he  is  to  dine 
alone." 

Without  looking  to  see  if  he  followed,  I  struck 
into  the  path  toward  home.  He  did  follow,  obedi- 
ently enough,  not  uttering  another  word  so  long  as 
we  were  in  the  woods,  though  I  could  hear  him 
breathing  sharply  as  he  strode  behind  me,  and  knew 
that  he  was  struggling  to  regain  control  of  himself. 
I  set  the  pace,  making  it  as  fast  as  I  could,  and 
neither  of  us  spoke  again  until  we  had  come  out  of 
the  forest  and  were  upon  the  main  road  near  the 
Baudry  cottage.  Then  he  said  in  a  steadier  voice: 

"  Why  should  it  distress  her  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,"  I  began,  not  slackening  the 
pace,  "  there  are  formalities " 

"  Ah,  I  know,"  he  interrupted,  with  an  impatient 
laugh.  "  Keredec  once  took  me  to  a  marionette  show 
— all  the  little  people  strung  on  wires ;  they  couldn't 
move  any  other  way.  And  so  you  mustn't  talk  to 
a  woman  until  somebody  whose  name  has  been  spoken 
to  you  speaks  yours  to  her!  Do  you  call  that  a 
rule  of  nature  ?  " 

[123] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  My  dear  boy,"  I  laughed  in  some  desperation, 
"  we  must  conform  to  it,  ordinarily,  no  matter  whose 
rule  it  is." 

"  Do  you  think  Madame  d'Armand  cares  for  little 
forms  like  that?  "  he  asked  challengingly. 

"  She  does,"  I  assured  him  with  perfect  confi- 
dence. "  And,  for  the  hundredth  time,  you  must  have 
seen  how  you  troubled  her." 

"  No,"  he  returned,  with  the  same  curious  ob- 
stinacy, "  I  don't  believe  it.  There  was  something, 
but  it  wasn't  trouble.  We  looked  straight  at  each 
other;  I  saw  her  eyes  plainly,  and  it  was — "  he 
paused  and  sighed,  a  sudden,  brilliant  smile  upon 
his  lips — "  it  was  very — it  was  very  strange !  " 

There  was  something  so  glad  and  different  in 
his  look  that — like  any  other  dried-up  old  blunderer 
in  my  place — I  felt  an  instant  tendency  to  laugh. 
It  was  that  heathenish  possession,  the  old  insanity 
of  the  risibles,  which  makes  a  man  think  it  a  hu- 
mourous thing  that  his  friend  should  be  discovered 
in  love. 

But  before  I  spoke,  before  I  quite  smiled  outright, 
I  was  given  the  grace  to  see  myself  in  the  likeness 
of  a  leering  stranger  trespassing  in  some  cherished 
[124] 


Chapter  Nine 

inclosure:  a  garden  where  the  gentlest  guests  must 
always  be  intruders,  and  only  the  owner  should  come. 
The  best  of  us  profane  it  readily,  leaving  the  coarse 
prints  of  our  heels  upon  its  paths,  mauling  and  j 
manhandling  the  fairy  blossoms  with  what  pudgy 
fingers!  Comes  the  poet,  ruthlessly  leaping  the  wall 
and  trumpeting  indecently  his  view-halloo  of  the 
chase,  and,  after  him,  the  joker,  snickering  and  hope- 
ful of  a  kill  among  the  rose-beds ;  for  this  has  been 
their  hunting-ground  since  the  world  began.  These 
two  have  made  us  miserably  ashamed  of  the  divine 
infinitive,  so  that  we  are  afraid  to  utter  the  very 
words  "  to  love,"  lest  some  urchin  overhear  and  pur- 
sue us  with  a  sticky  forefinger  and  stickier  taunts. 
It  is  little  to  my  credit  that  I  checked  the  silly  im- 
pulse to  giggle  at  the  eternal  marvel,  and  went  as 
gently  as  I  could  where  I  should  not  have  gone 
at  all. 

"  But  if  you  were  wrong,"  I  said,  "  if  it  did 
distress  her,  and  if  it  happened  that  she  has 
already  had  too  much  that  was  distressing  in  her 
life " 

"  You  know  something  about  her !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"You  know " 

[125] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

'*  I  do  not,"  I  interrupted  in  turn.  "  I  have  only  a 
vague  guess ;  I  may  be  altogether  mistaken." 

"  What  is  it  that  you  guess  ? "  he  demanded 
abruptly.  "Who  made  her  suffer?" 

"  I  think  it  was  her  husband,"  I  said,  with  a 
lack  of  discretion  for  which  I  was  instantly  sorry, 
fearing  with  reason  that  I  had  added  a  final  blunder 
to  the  long  list  of  the  afternoon.  "  That  is,"  I  added, 
"  if  my  guess  is  right." 

He  stopped  short  in  the  road,  detaining  me  by 
the  arm,  the  question  coming  like  a  whip-crack: 
sharp,  loud,  violent. 

"Is  he  alive?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  beginning  to  move 
forward ;  "  and  this  is  foolish  talk — especially  on  my 
part!" 

"  But  I  want  to  know,"  he  persisted,  again  de- 
taining me. 

"  And  I  don't  know !  "  I  returned  emphatically. 
"  Probably  I  am  entirely  mistaken  in  thinking  that 
I  know  anything  of  her  whatever.  I  ought  not  to 
have  spoken,  unless  I  knew  what  I  was  talking 
about,  and  I'd  rather  not  say  any  more  until  I  do 
know." 

[126] 


Chapter  Nine 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  quickly.  "  Will  you  tell  me 
then?" 

"  Yes—if  you  will  let  it  go  at  that." 
"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  with  an  impulse  which 
was  but  too  plainly  one  of  gratitude,  offered  me 
his  hand.  I  took  it,  and  my  soul  was  disquieted  within 
me,  for  it  was  no  purpose  of  mine  to  set  inquiries 
on  foot  in  regard  to  the  affairs  of  "  Madame  d'Ar- 
mand." 

It  was  early  dusk,  that  hour,  a  little  silvered  but 
still  clear,  when  the  edges  of  things  are  beginning  to 
grow  indefinite,  and  usually  our  sleepy  countryside 
knew  no  tranquiller  time  of  day ;  but  to-night,  as  we 
approached  the  inn,  there  were  strange  shapes  in 
the  roadway  and  other  tokens  that  events  were 
stirring  there. 

From  the  courtyard  came  the  sounds  of  laughter 
and  chattering  voices.  Before  the  entrance  stood  a 
couple  of  open  touring-cars ;  the  chauffeurs  engaged 
in  cooling  the  rear  tires  with  buckets  of  water  brought 
by  a  personage  ordinarily  known  as  Glouglou,  whose 
look  and  manner,  as  he  performed  this  office  for  the 
leathern  dignitaries,  so  awed  me  that  I  wondered  I 
[127] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

had  ever  dared  address  him  with  any  presumption 
of  intimacy.  The  cars  were  great  and  opulent,  of 
impressive  wheel-base,  and  fore-and-aft  they  were 
laden  intricately  with  baggage:  concave  trunks  fit- 
ting behind  the  tonneaus,  thin  trunks  fastened  upon 
the  footboards,  green,  circular  trunks  adjusted  to  the 
spare  tires,  all  deeply  coated  with  dust.  Here  were 
fineries  from  Paris,  doubtless  on  their  way  to  flutter 
over  the  gay  sands  of  Trouville,  and  now  wandering 
but  temporarily  from  the  road;  for  such  splendours 
were  never  designed  to  dazzle  us  of  Madame  Bros- 
sard's. 

We  were  crossing  before  the  machines  when  one 
of  the  drivers  saw  fit  to  crank  his  engine  (if  that  is 
the  knowing  phrase)  and  the  thing  shook  out  the 
usual  vibrating  uproar.  It  had  a  devastating  effect 
upon  my  companion.  He  uttered  a  wild  exclamation 
and  sprang  sideways  into  me,  almost  upsetting  us 
both. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  I  asked.  "Did 
you  think  the  car  was  starting  ?  " 

He  turned  toward  me  a  face  upon  which  was  im- 
printed the  sheer,  blank  terror  of  a  child.  It  passed 
in  an  instant  however,  and  he  laughed. 
[128] 


Chapter  Nine 

"  I  really  didn't  know.  Everything  has  been  so 
quiet  always,  out  here  in  the  country — and  that 
horrible  racket  coming  so  suddenly " 

Laughing  with  him,  I  took  his  arm  and  we  turned 
to  enter  the  archway.  As  we  did  so  we  almost  ran 
into  a  tall  man  who  was  coming  out,  evidently  in- 
tending to  speak  to  one  of  the  drivers. 

The  stranger  stepped  back  with  a  word  of  apology, 
and  I  took  note  of  him  for  a  fellow-countryman,  and 
a  worldly  buck  of  fashion  indeed,  almost  as  cap-a-pie 
the  automobilist  as  my  mysterious  spiller  of  cider 
had  been  the  pedestrian.  But  this  was  no  game- 
chicken  ;  on  the  contrary  (so  far  as  a  glance  in  the 
dusk  of  the  archway  revealed  him),  much  the  picture 
for  framing  in  a  club  window  of  a  Sunday  morning; 
a  seasoned,  hard-surfaced,  knowing  creature  for 
whom  many  a  head  waiter  must  have  swept  pre- 
vious claimants  from  desired  tables.  He  looked  forty 
years  so  cannily  that  I  guessed  him  to  be  about 
fifty. 

We  were  passing  him  when  he  uttered  an  ejacu- 
lation of  surprise  and  stepped  forward  again, 
holding  out  his  hand  to  my  companion,  and  ex- 
claiming : 

[129] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Where  did  you  come  from?  I'd  hardly  have 
known  you." 

Oliver  seemed  unconscious  of  the  proffered  hand; 
he  stiffened  visibly  and  said: 

"  I  think  there  must  be  some  mistake." 

"  So  there  is,"  said  the  other  promptly.  "I  have 
been  misled  by  a  resemblance.  I  beg  your  pardon." 

He  lifted  his  cap  slightly,  going  on,  and  we  en- 
tered the  courtyard  to  find  a  cheerful  party  of  nine 
or  ten  men  and  women  seated  about  a  couple  of 
tables.  Like  the  person  we  had  just  encountered, 
they  all  exhibited  a  picturesque  elaboration  of  the 
costume  permitted  by  their  mode  of  travel ;  making 
effective  groupings  in  their  ample  draperies  of  buff 
and  green  and  white,  with  glimpses  of  a  flushed 
and  pretty  face  or  two  among  the  loosened  veilings. 
Upon  the  tables  were  pots  of  tea,  plates  of  sand- 
wiches, Madame  Brossard's  three  best  silver  dishes 
heaped  with  fruit,  and  some  bottles  of  dry  cham- 
pagne from  the  cellars  of  Rheims.  The  partakers 
were  making  very  merry,  having  with  them  (as  is 
inevitable  in  all  such  parties,  it  seems)  a  fat  young 
man  inclined  to  humour,  who  was  now  upon  his  feet 
for  the  proposal  of  some  prankish  toast.  He  inter- 
[130] 


Chapter  Nine 

rupted  himself  long  enough  to  glance  our  way  as  we 
crossed  the  garden;  and  it  struck  me  that  several 
pairs  of  brighter  eyes  followed  my  young  companion 
with  interest.  He  was  well  worth  it,  perhaps  all  the 
more  because  he  was  so  genuinely  unconscious  of 
it ;  and  he  ran  up  the  gallery  steps  and  disappeared 
into  his  own  rooms  without  sending  even  a  glance 
from  the  corner  of  his  eye  in  return. 

I  went  almost  as  quickly  to  my  pavilion,  and,  with- 
out lighting  my  lamp,  set  about  my  preparations 
for  dinner. 

The  party  outside,  breaking  up  presently,  could 
be  heard  moving  toward  the  archway  with  increased 
noise  and  laughter,  inspired  by  some  exquisite 
antic  on  the  part  of  the  fat  young  man,  when  a 
girl's  voice  (a  very  attractive  voice)  called,  "  Oh, 
Gressie,  aren't  you  coming  ?  "  and  a  man's  replied, 
from  near  my  veranda :  "  Only  stopping  to  light  a 
cigar." 

A  flutter  of  skirts  and  a  patter  of  feet  betokened 
that  the  girl  came  running  back  to  join  the  smoker. 
"  Cressie,"  I  heard  her  say  in  an  eager,  lowered  tone, 
"  who  was  he  ?  " 

"Who  was  who?" 

[131] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  That  devastating  creature  in  white  flannels !  " 

The  man  chuckled.  "  Matinee  sort  of  devastator — 
what?  Monte  Cristo  hair,  noble  profile " 

"  You'd  better  tell  me,"  she  interrupted  earnest- 
ly— "  if  you  don't  want  me  to  ask  the  waiter" 

"  But  I  don't  know  him." 

"  I  saw  you  speak  to  him." 

"  I  thought  it  was  a  man  I  met  three  years  ago 
out  in  San  Francisco,  but  I  was  mistaken.  There  was 
a  slight  resemblance.  This  fellow  might  have  been 
a  rather  decent  younger  brother  of  the  man  I  knew. 
He  was  the " 

My  strong  impression  was  that  if  the  speaker 
had  not  been  interrupted  at  this  point  he  would  have 
said  something  very  unfavourable  to  the  character 
of  the  man  he  had  met  in  San  Francisco;  but  there 
came  a  series  of  blasts  from  the  automobile  horns 
and  loud  calls  from  others  of  the  party,  who  were 
evidently  waiting  for  these  two. 

"  Coming !  "  shouted  the  man. 

"  Wait !  "  said  his  companion  hurriedly.  "  Who 
was  the  other  man,  the  older  one  with  the  painting 
things  and  such  a  coat  ?  " 

"  Never  saw  him  before  in  my  life." 
[132] 


Chapter  Nine 

I  caught  a  last  word  from  the  girl  as  the  pair 
moved  away. 

"  I'll  come  back  here  with  a  band  to-morrow 
night,  and  serenade  the  beautiful  one. 

"  Perhaps  he'd  drop  me  his  card  out  of  the  win- 
dow!" 

The  horns  sounded  again ;  there  was  a  final  chorus 
of  laughter,  suddenly  ceasing  to  be  heard  as  the 
cars  swept  away,  and  Les  Trois  Pigeons  was  left  to 
its  accustomed  quiet. 

"  Monsieur  is  served,"  said  Amedee,  looking  in  at 
my  door,  five  minutes  later. 

"  You  have  passed  a  great  hour  just  now, 
Amedee." 

"  It  was  like  the  old  days,  truly ! " 

"  They  are  off  for  Trouville,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  monsieur,  they  are  on  their  way  to  visit 
the  chateau,  and  stopped  here  only  because  the  run 
from  Paris  had  made  the  tires  too  hot." 

"  To  visit  Quesnay,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Truly.  But  monsieur  need  give  himself  no  un- 
easiness ;  I  did  not  mention  to  any  one  that  monsieur 
is  here.  His  name  was  not  spoken.  Mademoiselle 
[133] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

Ward   returned  to  the  chateau  to-day,"  he  added. 
"  She  has  been  in  England." 

"  Quesnay  will  be  gay,"  I  said,  coming  out  to  the 
table.  Oliver  Saffren  was  helping  the  professor  down 
the  steps,  and  Keredec,  bent  with  suffering,  but  in- 
domitable, gave  me  a  hearty  greeting,  and  began 
a  ruthless  dissection  of  Plato  with  the  soup.  Oliver, 
usually  very  quiet,  as  I  have  said,  seemed  a  little 
restless  under  the  discourse  to-night.  However,  he 
did  not  interrupt,  sitting  patiently  until  bedtime, 
though  obviously  not  listening.  When  he  bade  me 
good  night  he  gave  me  a  look  so  clearly  in  reference 
to  a  secret  understanding  between  us  that,  meaning 
to  keep  only  the  letter  of  my  promise  to  him,  I 
felt  about  as  comfortable  as  if  I  had  meanly  tricked 
a  child. 


[134] 


CHAPTER    TEN 

1HAD  finished  dressing,  next  morning,  and  was 
strapping  my  things  together  for  the  day's 
campaign,  when  I  heard  a  shuffling  step  upon 
the  porch,  and  the  door  opened  gently,  without  any 
previous  ceremony  of  knocking.  To  my  angle  of 
vision  what  at  first  appeared  to  have  opened  it  was 
a  tray  of  coffee,  rolls,  eggs,  and  a  packet  of  sand- 
wiches, but,  after  hesitating  somewhat,  this  appari- 
tion advanced  farther  into  the  room,  disclosing  a 
pair  of  supporting  hands,  followed  in  due  time  by  the 
whole  person  of  a  nervously  smiling  and  visibly  ap- 
prehensive Amedee.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him 
by  the  simple  action  of  backing  against  it,  took  the 
cloth  from  his  arm,  and  with  a  single  gesture  spread 
it  neatly  upon  a  small  table,  then,  turning  to  me, 
laid  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  warningly  upon 
his  lips  and  bowed  me  a  deferential  invitation  to 
occupy  the  chair  beside  the  table. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  glaring  at  him,  "  what  ails  you  ?  " 
[135] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  I  thought  monsieur  might  prefer  his  breakfast 
indoors,  this  morning,"  he  returned  in  a  low  voice. 

"Why  should  I?" 

The  miserable  old  man  said  something  I  did  not 
understand — an  incoherent  syllable  or  two — sudden- 
ly covered  his  mouth  with  both  hands,  and  turned 
away.  I  heard  a  catch  in  his  throat;  suffocated 
sounds  issued  from  his  bosom;  however,  it  was 
nothing  more  than  a  momentary  seizure,  and,  re- 
covering command  of  himself  by  a  powerful  effort, 
he  faced  me  with  hypocritical  servility. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  ?  "  I  asked  indignantly. 

"  But  I  did  not  laugh,"  he  replied  in  a  husky 
whisper.  "Not  at  all." 

"  You  did,"  I  asserted,  raising  my  voice.  "  It  al- 
most killed  you !  " 

"  Monsieur,"  he  begged  hoarsely,  "  hush!  " 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  demanded  loudly. 
u  What  do  you  mean  by  these  abominable  croakings  ? 
$peak  out!" 

"  Monsieur — "  he  gesticulated  in  a  panic,  toward 
the  courtyard.  "  Mademoiselle  Ward  is  out  there." 

"  What!  "  But  I  did  not  shout  the  word. 

"  There  is  always  a  little  window  in  the  rear  wall," 
[136] 


Chapter  Ten 

he  breathed  In  my  ear  as  I  dropped  into  the  chair 
by  the   table.    "  She   would  not   see  you   if " 

I  interrupted  with  all  the  French  rough-and-ready 
expressions  of  dislike  at  my  command,  daring  to 
hope  that  they  might  give  him  some  shadowy,  far- 
away idea  of  what  I  thought  of  both  himself  and 
his  suggestions,  and,  notwithstanding  the  difficulty 
of  expressing  strong  feeling  in  whispers,  it  seemed 
to  me  that,  in  a  measure,  I  succeeded.  "  I  am  not 
in  the  habit  of  crawling  out  of  ventilators,"  I  added, 
subduing  a  tendency  to  vehemence.  "  And  probably 
Mademoiselle  Ward  has  only  come  to  talk  with  Ma- 
dame Brossard." 

"  I  fear  some  of  those  people  may  have  told  her 
you  were  here,"  he  ventured  insinuatingly. 

"  What  people  ? "  I  asked,  drinking  my  coffee 
calmly,  yet,  it  must  be  confessed,  without  quite  the 
deliberation  I  could  have  wished. 

"  Those  who  stopped  yesterday  evening  on  the 
way  to  the  chateau.  They  might  have  recog- 
nised  " 

"  Impossible.  I  knew  none  of  them." 

"  But  Mademoiselle  Ward  knows  that  you  are 
here.  Without  doubt." 

[137] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Why  do  you  say  so  ?  " 

"  Because  she  has  inquired  for  you." 

"  So !  "  I  rose  at  once  and  went  toward  the  door. 
"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  at  once?  " 

"  But  surely,"  he  remonstrated,  ignoring  my 
question,  "  monsieur  will  make  some  change  of 
attire?  " 

"  Change  of  attire?  "  I  echoed. 

"  Eh,  the  poor  old  coat  all  hunched  at  the  shoul- 
ders and  spotted  with  paint !  " 

"  Why  shouldn't  it  be  ?  "  I  hissed,  thoroughly  ir- 
ritated. "  Do  you  take  me  for  a  racing  marquis  ?  " 

"  But  monsieur  has  a  coat  much  more  as  a  coat 
ought  to  be.  And  Jean  Ferret  says " 

"  Ha,  now  we're  getting  at  it ! "  said  I.  "  What 
does  Jean  Ferret  say  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  I  did  not  re- 
peat  " 

"Out  with  it!  What  does  Jean  Ferret  say?" 

"  Well,  then,  Mademoiselle  Ward's  maid  from 
Paris  has  told  Jean  Ferret  that  monsieur  and 
Mademoiselle  Ward  have  corresponded  for  years, 
and  that — and  that " 

"  Go  on,"  I  bade  him  ominously. 
[188] 


Chapter  Ten 

"  That  monsieur  has  sent  Mademoiselle  Ward 
many  expensive  jewels,  and " 

"  Aha ! "  said  I,  at  which  he  paused  abruptly, 
and  stood  staring  at  me.  The  idea  of  explaining 
Miss  Elizabeth's  collection  to  him,  of  getting  any- 
thing whatever  through  that  complacent  head  of  his, 
was  so  hopeless  that  I  did  not  even  consider  it. 
There  was  only  one  thing  to  do,  and  perhaps  I 
should  have  done  it — I  do  not  know,  for  he  saw 
the  menace  coiling  in  my  eye,  and  hurriedly  re- 
treated. 

"  Monsieur!  "  he  gasped,  backing  away  from  me, 
and  as  his  hand,  fumbling  behind  him,  found  the 
latch  of  the  door,  he  opened  it,  and  scrambled  out 
by  a  sort  of  spiral  movement  round  the  casing. 
When  I  followed,  a  moment  later — with  my  traps 
on  my  shoulder  and  the  packet  of  sandwiches  in 
my  pocket — he  was  out  of  sight. 

Miss  Elizabeth  sat  beneath  the  arbour  at  the 
other  end  of  the  courtyard,  and  beside  her  stood 
the  trim  and  glossy  bay  saddle-horse  that  she  had 
ridden  from  Quesnay,  his  head  outstretched  above 
his  mistress  to  paddle  at  the  vine  leaves  with  a  trem- 
ulous upper  lip.  She  checked  his  desire  with  a  slight 
[139] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

movement  of  her  hand  upon  the  bridle-rein;  and 
he  arched  his  neck  prettily,  pawing  the  gravel  with 
a  neat  forefoot.  Miss  Elizabeth  is  one  of  the  few 
large  women  I  have  known  to  whom  a  riding- 
habit  is  entirely  becoming,  and  this  group  of  two — a 
handsome  woman  and  her  handsome  horse — has 
had  a  charm  for  all  men  ever  since  horses  were 
tamed  and  women  began  to  be  beautiful.  I  thought 
of  my  work,  of  the  canvases  I  meant  to  cover,  but 
I  felt  the  charm — and  I  felt  it  stirringly.  It  was 
a  fine,  fresh  morning  and  the  sun  just  risen. 

An  expression  in  the  lady's  attitude,  and  air 
which  I  instinctively  construed  as  histrionic,  seemed 
intended  to  convey  that  she  had  been  kept  waiting, 
yet  had  waited  without  reproach;  and  although  she 
must  have  heard  me  coming,  she  did  not  look  toward 
me  until  I  was  quite  near  and  spoke  her  name.  At 
that  she  sprang  up  quickly  enough,  and  stretched 
out  her  hand  to  me. 

"  Run  to  earth ! "  she  cried,  advancing  a  step  to 
meet  me. 

"  A  pretty  poor  trophy  of  the  chase,"  said  I,  "  but 
proud  that  you  are  its  killer." 

To  my  surprise  and  mystification,  her  cheeks  and 
[  140  ] 


Chapter  Ten 

brow  flushed  rosily;  she  was  obviously  conscious  of 
it,  and  laughed. 

"  Don't  be  embarrassed,"  she  said. 

"  I ! " 

"  Yes  you,  poor  man !  I  suppose  I  couldn't  have 
more  thoroughly  compromised  you.  Madame  Bros- 
sard  will  never  believe  in  your  respectability  again." 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  will,"  said  I. 

"  What  ?  A  lodger  who  has  ladies  calling  upon 
him  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning?  But  your  bun- 
dle's on  your  shoulder,"  she  rattled  on,  laughing, 
"  though  there's  many  could  be  bolder,  and  perhaps 
you'll  let  me  walk  a  bit  of  the  way  with  you,  if 
you're  for  the  road." 

"  Perhaps  I  will,"  said  I.  She  caught  up  her 
riding-skirt,  fastening  it  by  a  clasp  at  her  side,  and 
we  passed  out  through  the  archway  and  went  slowly 
along  the  road  bordering  the  forest,  her  horse  fol- 
lowing obediently  at  half-rein's  length. 

"  When  did  you  hear  that  I  was  at  Madame 
Brossard's  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Ten  minutes  after  I  returned  to  Quesnay,  late 
yesterday  afternoon." 

"Who  told  you?" 

[141] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Louise." 

I  repeated  the  name  questioningly.  "  You  mean 
Mrs.  Larrabee  Harman  ?  " 

"  Louise  Harman,"  she  corrected.  "  Didn't  you 
know  she  was  staying  at  Quesnay  ?  " 

"  I  guessed  it,  though  Amedee  got  the  name  con- 
fused." 

"  Yes,  she's  been  kind  enough  to  look  after  the 
place  for  us  while  we  were  away.  George  won't  be 
back  for  another  ten  days,  and  I've  been  overseeing 
an  exhibition  for  him  in  London.  Afterward  I  did 
a  round  of  visits — tiresome  enough,  but  among  peo- 
ple it's  well  to  keep  in  touch  with  on  George's  ac- 
count." 

"  I  see,"  I  said,  with  a  grimness  which  probably 
escaped  her.  "  But  how  did  Mrs.  Harman  know  that 
I  was  at  Les  Trots  Pigeons?  " 

"  She  met  you  once  in  the  forest—: — " 

"  Twice,"  I  interrupted. 

"  She  mentioned  only  once.  Of  course  she'd  often 
heard  both  George  and  me  speak  of  you." 

"  But  how  did  she  know  it  was  I  and  where  I 
was  staying?  " 

"  Oh,  that  ? "  Her  smile  changed  to  a  laugh. 
[142] 


Chapter  Ten 

"  Your  maitre  d'hotel  told  Ferret,   a  gardener   at 
Quesnay,  that  you  were  at  the  inn." 

"He  did!" 

"  Oh,  but  you  mustn't  be  angry  with  him ;  he  made 
it  quite  all  right." 

"  How  did  he  do  that?  "  I  asked,  trying  to  speak 
calmly,  though  there  was  that  in  my  mind  which 
might  have  blanched  the  parchment  cheek  of  a  grand 
inquisitor. 

"  He  told  Ferret  that  you  were  very  anxious  not 
to  have  it  known " 

"You  call  that  making  it  all  right?" 

"  For  himself,  I  mean.  He  asked  Ferret  not  to 
mention  who  it  was  that  told  him." 

"  The  rascal ! "  I  cried.  "  The  treacherous, 
brazen — 

"  Unfortunate  man,"  said  Miss  Elizabeth,  "  don't 
you  see  how  clear  you're  making  it  that  you  really 
meant  to  hide  from  us  ?  " 

There  seemed  to  be  something  in  that,  and  my 
tirade  broke  up  in  confusion.  "  Oh,  no,"  I  said  lame- 
ly, "  I  hoped— I  hoped " 

"Be  careful!" 

"  No ;  I  hoped  to  work  down  here,"  I  blurted. 
[143] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  And  I  thought  if  I  saw  too  much  of  you — I  might 
not." 

She  looked  at  me  with  widening  eyes.  "  And  I 
can  take  my  choice,"  she  cried,  "  of  all  the  different 
things  you  may  mean  by  that!  It's  either  the  most 
outrageous  speech  I  ever  heard — or  the  most  flatter- 
ing." 

"  But  I  meant  simply " 

"  No."  She  lifted  her  hand  and  stopped  me.  "  I'd 
rather  believe  that  I  have  at  least  the  choice — and 
let  it  go  at  that."  And  as  I  began  to  laugh,  she 
turned  to  me  with  a  gravity  apparently  so  genuine 
that  for  the  moment  I  was  fatuous  enough  to  be- 
lieve that  she  had  said  it  seriously.  Ensued  a 
pause  of  some  duration,  which,  for  my  part,  I 
found  disturbing.  She  broke  it  with  a  change  of 
subject. 

"  You  think  Louise  very  lovely  to  look  at,  don't 
you?" 

"  Exquisite,"  I  answered. 

"  Every  one  does." 

"  I  suppose  she  told  you — "  and  now  I  felt  myself 
growing  red — "  that  I  behaved  like  a  drunken  acro- 
bat when  she  came  upon  me  in  the  path." 
[144] 


Chapter  Ten 

"  No.  Did  you? "  cried  Miss  Elizabeth,  with  a 
ready  credulity  which  I  thought  by  no  means  pretty ; 
indeed,  she  seemed  amused  and,  to  my  surprise  (for 
she  is  not  an  unkind  woman),  rather  heartlessly 
pleased.  "  Louise  only  said  she  knew  it  must  be  you, 
and  that  she  wished  she  could  have  had  a  better  look 
at  what  you  were  painting." 

"  Heaven  bless  her !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Her  reticence 
was  angelic." 

"  Yes,  she  has  reticence,"  said  my  companion,  with 
enough  of  the  same  quality  to  make  me  look  at  her 
quickly.  A  thin  line  had  been  drawn  across  her  fore- 
head. 

"You  mean  she's  still  reticent  with  George?"  I 
ventured. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  sadly.  "  Poor  George  al- 
ways hopes,  of  course,  in  the  silent  way  of  his  kind 
when  they  suffer  from  such  unfortunate  passions — 
and  he  waits." 

"  I  suppose  that  former  husband  of  hers  recov- 
ered? " 

"  I  believe  he's  still  alive  somewhere.  Locked  up, 
I  hope ! "  she  finished  crisply. 

'*  She  retained  his  name,"  I  observed. 
[145] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Harman  ?  Yes,  she  retained  it,"  said  my  com- 
panion rather  shortly. 

"At  all  events,  she's  rid  of  him,  isn't  she?" 

"  Oh,  she's  rid  of  him !  "  Her  tone  implied  an  enig- 
matic reservation  of  some  kind. 

"  It's  hard,"  I  reflected  aloud,  "  hard  to  under- 
stand her  making  that  mistake,  young  as  she  was. 
Even  in  the  glimpses  of  her  I've  had,  it  was  easy  to 
see  something  of  what  she's  like:  a  fine,  rare,  high 
type-  -" 

"  But  you  didn't  know  him,  did  you  ?  "  Miss  Eliz- 
abeth asked  with  some  dryness. 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  I  saw  him  twice ;  once  at 
the  time  of  his  accident — that  was  only  a  nightmare, 
his  face  covered  with — "  I  shivered.  "  But  I  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  him  on  the  boulevard,  and  of 
all  the  dreadful " 

"  Oh,  but  he  wasn't  always  dreadful,"  she  inter- 
posed quickly.  "  He  was  a  fascinating  sort  of  person, 
quite  charming  and  good-looking,  when  she  ran 
away  with  him,  though  he  was  horribly  dissipated 
even  then.  He  always  had  been  that.  Of  course  she 
thought  she'd  be  able  to  straighten  him  out — poor 
girl !  She  tried,  for  three  years — three  years  it  hurts 
[146] 


Chapter  Ten 

one  to  think  of !  You  see  it  must  have  been  something 
very  like  a  '  grand  passion '  to  hold  her  through  a 
pain  three  years  long." 

"  Or  tremendous  pride,"  said  I.  "  Women  make  an 
odd  world  of  it  for  the  rest  of  us.  There  was  good 
old  George,  as  true  and  straight  a  man  as  ever 
lived " 

"  And  she  took  the  other !  Yes."  George's  sister 
laughed  sorrowfully. 

"  But  George  and  she  have  both  survived  the  mis- 
take," I  went  on  with  confidence.  "  Her  tragedy  must 
have  taught  her  some  important  differences.  Haven't 
you  a  notion  she'll  be  tremendously  glad  to  see  him 
when  he  comes  back  from  America  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  do  hope  so ! "  she  cried.  "  You  see,  I'm 
fearing  that  he  hopes  so  too — to  the  degree  of  count- 
ing on  it." 

"  You  don't  count  on  it  yourself  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  With  any  other  woman  I 
should." 

"Why  not  with  Mrs.  Harman?  " 

"  Cousin  Louise  has  her  ways,"  said  Miss  Eliza- 
beth slowly,  and,  whether  she  could  not  further  ex- 
plain her  doubts,  or  whether  she  would  not,  that  was 
[147] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

all  I  got  out  of  her  on  the  subject  at  the  time. 
I  asked  one  or  two  more  questions,  but  my  com- 
panion merely  shook  her  head  again,  alluding  vaguo- 
ly  to  her  cousin's  "  ways."  Then  she  brightened  sud- 
denly, and  inquired  when  I  would  have  my  things 
sent  up  to  the  chateau  from  the  inn. 

At  the  risk  of  a  misunderstanding  which  I  felt 
I  could  ill  afford,  I  resisted  her  kind  hospitality, 
and  the  outcome  of  it  was  that  there  should  be  a  kind 
of  armistice,  to  begin  with  my  dining  at  the  chateau 
that  evening.  Thereupon  she  mounted  to  the  saddle, 
a  bit  of  gymnastics  for  which  she  declined  my  as- 
sistance, and  looked  down  upon  me  from  a  great 
height. 

"  Did  anybody  ever  tell  you,"  was  her  surprising 
inquiry,  "  that  you  are  the  queerest  man  of  these 
times?" 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  Don't  you  think  you're  a 
queerer  woman  ?  " 

"  Footle!  "  she  cried  scornfully.  "  Be  off  to  your 
woods  and  your  woodscaping !  " 

The  bay  horse  departed  at  a  smart  gait,  not,  I 
was  glad  to  see,  a  parkish  trot — Miss  Elizabeth 
wisely  set  limits  to  her  sacrifices  to  Mode — and  she 
[148] 


Chapter  Ten 

was  far  down  the  road  before  I  had  passed  the  outer 
fringe  of  trees. 

My  work  was  accomplished  after  a  fashion  more 
or  less  desultory  that  day;  I  had  many  absent  mo- 
ments, was  restless,  and  walked  more  than  I  painted. 
Oliver  Saffren  did  not  join  me  in  the  late  afternoon; 
nor  did  the  echo  of  distant  yodelling  bespeak  any 
effort  on  his  part  to  find  me.  So  I  gave  him  up,  and 
returned  to  the  inn  earlier  than  usual. 

While  dressing  I  sent  word  to  Professor  Keredec 
that  I  should  not  be  able  to  join  him  at  dinner  that 
evening;  and  it  is  to  be  recorded  that  Glouglou 
carried  the  message  for  me.  Ame'de'e  did  not  appear, 
from  which  it  may  be  inferred  that  our  maitre  d'hotel 
was  subject  to  lucid  intervals.  Certainly  his  present 
shyness  indicated  an  intelligence  of  no  low  order. 


[149] 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

THE  dining-room  at  Quesnay  is  a  pretty  work 
of  the  second  of  those  three  Louises  who 
made  so  much  furniture.  It  was  never  a 
proper  setting  for  a  rusty,  out-of-doors  painter- 
man,  nor  has  such  a  fellow  ever  found  himself  com- 
placently at  ease  there  since  the  day  its  first  banquet 
was  spread  for  a  score  or  so  of  fine-feathered  epi- 
gram jinglers,  fiddling  Versailles  gossip  out  of  a 
rouge-and-lace  Quesnay  marquise  newly  sent  into 
half-earnest  banishment  for  too  much  king-hunting. 
For  my  part,  however,  I  should  have  preferred  a 
chance  at  making  a  place  for  myself  among  the  wigs 
and  brocades  to  the  Crusoe's  Isle  of  my  chair  at 
Miss  Elizabeth's  table. 

I  learned  at  an  early  age  to  look  my  vanities  in 
the  face;  I  outfaced  them  and  they  quailed,  but 
persisted,  surviving  for  my  discomfort  to  this  day. 
Here  is  the  confession:  It  was  not  until  my  arrival 
at  the  chateau  that  I  realised  what  temerity  it  in- 
[150] 


Chapter  Eleven 

volved  to  dine  there  in  evening  clothes  purchased, 
some  four  or  five  or  six  years  previously,  in  the  eco- 
nomical neighbourhood  of  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel, 
Yet  the  things  fitted  me  well  enough;  were  clean 
and  not  shiny,  having  been  worn  no  more  than  a 
dozen  times,  I  think;  though  they  might  have  been 
better  pressed. 

Looking  over  the  men  of  the  Quesnay  party — or 
perhaps  I  should  signify  a  reversal  of  that  and  say 
a  glance  of  theirs  at  me — revealed  the  importance 
of  a  particular  length  of  coat-tail,  of  a  certain  rich 
effect  obtained  by  widely  separating  the  lower  points 
of  the  waistcoat,  of  the  display  of  some  imagination 
in  the  buttons  upon  the  same  garment,  of  a  doubled- 
back  arrangement  of  cuffs,  and  of  a  specific  design 
and  dimension  of  tie.  Marked  uniformity  in  these 
matters  denoted  their  necessity ;  and  clothes  differ- 
ing from  the  essential  so  vitally  as  did  mine  must 
have  seemed  immodest,  little  better  than  no  clothes 
at  all.  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  argued  in  extenuation 
my  lack  of  advantages  for  study,  such  an  excuse 
being  itself  the  damning  circumstance.  Of  course  ec- 
centricity is  permitted,  but  (as  in  the  Arts)  only  to 
the  established.  And  I  recalled  a  painful  change  of 
[151] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

colour  which  befell  the  countenance  of  a  shining 
young  man  I  met  at  Ward's  house  in  Paris:  he  had 
used  his  handkerchief  and  was  absently  putting  it 
in  his  pocket  when  he  providentially  noticed  what 
he  was  doing  and  restored  it  to  his  sleeve. 

Miss  Elizabeth  had  the  courage  to  take  me  under 
her  wing,  placing  me  upon  her  left  at  dinner;  but 
sprightlier  calls  than  mine  demanded  and  occupied 
her  attention.  At  my  other  side  sat  a  magnificently 
upholstered  lady,  who  offered  a  fine  shoulder  and  the 
rear  wall  of  a  collar  of  pearls  for  my  observation 
throughout  the  evening,  as  she  leaned  forward  talk- 
ing eagerly  with  a  male  personage  across  the  table. 
This  was  a  prince,  ending  in  "  ski " :  he  permitted 
himself  the  slight  vagary  of  wearing  a  gold  brace- 
let, and  perhaps  this  flavour  of  romance  drew  the 
lady.  Had  my  good  fortune  ever  granted  a  second 
meeting,  I  should  not  have  known  her. 

Fragments  reaching  me  in  my  seclusion  indicated 
that  the  various  conversations  up  and  down  the  long 
table  were  animated ;  and  at  times  some  topic  proved 
of  such  high  interest  as  to  engage  the  comment  of 
the  whole  company.  This  was  the  case  when  the  age 
of  one  of  the  English  king's  grandchildren  came 
£162] 


Chapter  Eleven 

in  question,  but  a  subject  which  called  for  even 
longer  (if  less  spirited)  discourse  concerned  the 
shameful  lack  of  standard  on  the  part  of  citizens  of 
the  United  States,  or,  as  it  was  put,  with  no  little 
exasperation,  "  What  is  the  trouble  with  Ameri- 
ca ? "  Hereupon  brightly  gleamed  the  fat  young 
man  whom  I  had  marked  for  a  wit  at  Les  Trols 
Pigeons;  he  pictured  with  inimitable  mimicry  a  west- 
ern senator  lately  in  France.  This  outcast,  it  ap- 
peared, had  worn  a  slouch  hat  at  a  garden  party  and 
had  otherwise  betrayed  his  country  to  the  ridicule  of 
the  intelligent.  "  But  really,"  said  the  fat  young  man, 
turning  plaintiff  in  conclusion,  "  imagine  what  such 
things  make  the  English  and  the  French  think  of  us!  " 
And  it  finally  went  by  consent  that  the  trouble  with 
America  was  the  vulgarity  of  our  tourists. 

"A  dreadful  lot!"  Miss  Elizabeth  cheerfully 
summed  up  for  them  all.  "  The  miseries  I  undergo 
with  that  class  of  *  prominent  Amurricans '  who 
bring  letters  to  my  brother!  I  remember  one  awful 
creature  who  said,  when  I  came  into  the  room, 
*  Well,  ma'am,  I  guess  you're  the  lady  of  the  house, 
aren't  you  ?  " 

Miss  Elizabeth  sparkled  through  the  chorus  of 
[163] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

laughter,  but  I  remembered  the  "  awful  creature," 
a  genial  and  wise  old  man  of  affairs,  whose  daughter's 
portrait  George  painted.  Miss  Elizabeth  had  missed 
his  point:  the  canvasser's  phrase  had  been  intended 
with  humour,  and  even  had  it  lacked  that,  it  was 
not  without  a  pretty  quaintness.  So  I  thought,  being 
"  left  to  my  own  reflections,"  which  may  have  par- 
taken of  my  own  special  kind  of  snobbery ;  at  least  I 
regretted  the  Elizabeth  of  the  morning  garden  and 
the  early  walk  along  the  fringe  of  the  woods.  For 
she  at  my  side  to-night  was  another  lady. 

The  banquet  was  drawing  to  a  close  when  she 
leaned  toward  me  and  spoke  in  an  undertone.  As 
this  was  the  first  sign,  in  so  protracted  a  period, 
that  I  might  ever  again  establish  relations  with  the 
world  of  men,  it  came  upon  me  like  a  Friday's  foot- 
print, and  in  the  moment  of  shock  I  did  not  catch 
what  she  said. 

"  Anne  Elliott,  yonder,  is  asking  you  a  question," 
she  repeated,  nodding  at  a  very  pretty  girl  down 
and  across  the  table  from  me.  Miss  Anne  Elliott's 
attractive  voice  had  previously  enabled  me  to  recog- 
nise her  as  the  young  woman  who  had  threatened 
to  serenade  Les  Trois  Pigeons. 
[154] 


Chapter  Eleven 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said,  addressing  her,  and 
at  the  sound  my  obscurity  was  illuminated,  about 
half  of  the  company  turning  to  look  at  me  with 
wide-eyed  surprise.  (I  spoke  in  an  ordinary  tone,  it 
may  need  to  be  explained,  and  there  is  nothing  re- 
markable about  my  voice.) 

"  I  hear  you're  at  Les  Trois  Pigeons,"  said  Miss 
Elliott. 

"Yes?" 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  us  something  of  the 
mysterious  Narcissus  ?  " 

"  If  you'll  be  more  definite,"  I  returned,  in  the 
tone  of  a  question. 

"  There  couldn't  be  more  than  one  like  that" 
said  Miss  Elliott,  "  at  least,  not  in  one  neigh- 
bourhood, could  there?  I  mean  a  recklessly  charm- 
ing vision  with  a  white  tie  and  white  hair  and  white 
flannels." 

"  Oh,"  said  I,  "  he's  not  mysterious." 

"  But  he  is"  she  returned ;  "  I  insist  on  his  being 
mysterious!  Rarely,  grandly,  strangely  mysterious! 
You  will  let  me  think  so?  "  This  young  lady  had  a 
whimsical  manner  of  emphasising  words  unexpected- 
ly, with  a  breathless  intensity  that  approached  vio- 
[155] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

lence,  a  habit  dangerously  contagious  among  nervous 
persons,  so  that  I  answered  slowly,  out  of  a  fear  that 
I  might  echo  it. 

"  It  would  need  a  great  deal  of  imagination. 
He's  a  young  American,  very  attractive,  very  sim- 
pie-  -» 

"  But  he's  mad!  "  she  interrupted. 

"  Oh,  no !  "  I  said  hastily. 

"  But  he  is!  A  person  told  me  so  in  a  garden  this 
very  afternoon,"  she  went  on  eagerly ;  "  a  person  with 
a  rake  and  ever  so  many  moles  on  his  chin.  This 
person  told  me  all  about  him.  His  name  is  Oliver 
Saffren,  and  he's  in  the  charge  of  a  very  large  doc- 
tor and  quite,  quite  mad !  " 

"  Jean  Ferret,  the  gardener,"  I  said  deliberately, 
and  with  venom,  "  is  fast  acquiring  notoriety  in 
these  parts  as  an  idiot  of  purest  ray,  and  he  had  his 
information  from  another  whose  continuance  un- 
hanged is  every  hour  more  miraculous." 

"  How  ruthless  of  you,"  cried  Miss  Elliott,  with 
exaggerated  reproach,  "  when  I  have  had  such 
a  thrilling  happiness  all  day  in  believing  that  riot- 
ously beautiful  creature  mad!  You  are  wholly  posi- 
tive he  isn't?" 

[156] 


Chapter  Eleven 

Our  dialogue  was  now  all  that  delayed  a  general 
departure  from  the  table.  This,  combined  with  the 
naive  surprise  I  have  mentioned,  served  to  make  us 
temporarily  the  centre  of  attention,  and,  among  the 
faces  turned  toward  me,  my  glance  fell  unexpectedly 
upon  one  I  had  not  seen  since  entering  the  dining- 
room.  Mrs.  Harman  had  been  placed  at  some  dis- 
tance from  me  and  on  the  same  side  of  the  table, 
but  now  she  leaned  far  back  in  her  chair  to  look 
at  me,  so  that  I  saw  her  behind  the  shoulders  of 
the  people  between  us.  She  was  watching  me  with  an 
expression  unmistakably  of  repressed  anxiety  and 
excitement,  and  as  our  eyes  met,  hers  shone  with 
a  certain  agitation,  as  of  some  odd  consciousness 
shared  with  me.  It  was  so  strangely,  suddenly  a  re- 
minder of  the  look  of  secret  understanding  given 
me  with  good  night,  twenty-four  hours  earlier,  by 
the  man  whose  sanity  was  Miss  Elliott's  topic,  that, 
puzzled  and  almost  disconcerted  for  the  moment,  I 
did  not  at  once  reply  to  the  lively  young  lady's 
question. 

"  You're  hesitating ! "  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands.  "  I  believe  there's  a  darling  little  chance  of 
it,  after  all!  And  if  it  weren't  so,  why  would  he 
[157] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

need  to  be  watched  over,  day  and  night,  by  an  enor- 
mous doctor  ?  " 

"  This  is  romance ! "  I  retorted.  "  The  doctor  is 
Professor  Keredec,  illustriously  known  in  this  coun- 
try, but  not  as  a  physician,  and  they  are  follow- 
ing some  form  of  scientific  research  together,  I 
believe.  But,  assuming  to  speak  as  Mr.  Saffren's 
friend,"  I  added,  rising  with  the  others  upon 
Miss  Ward's  example,  "  I'm  sure  if  he  could  come 
to  know  of  your  interest,  he  would  much  rather 
play  Hamlet  for  you  than  let  you  find  him  disap- 
pointing." 

"  If  he  could  come  to  know  of  my  interest ! "  she 
echoed,  glancing  down  at  herself  with  mock  demure- 
ness.  "  Don't  you  think  he  could  come  to  know  some- 
thing more  of  me  than  that  ?  " 

The  windows  had  been  thrown  open,  allowing 
passage  to  a  veranda.  Miss  Elizabeth  led  the  way 
outdoors  with  the  prince,  the  rest  of  us  following  at 
hazard,  and  in  the  mild  confusion  of  this  withdrawal 
I  caught  a  final  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Harman,  which 
revealed  that  she  was  still  looking  at  me  with  the 
same  tensity ;  but  with  the  movement  of  intervening 
groups  I  lost  her.  Miss  Elliott  pointedly  waited  for 
[158] 


Chapter  Eleven 

me  until  I  came  round  the  table,  attached  me  defi- 
nitely by  taking  my  arm,  accompanying  her  action 
with  a  dazzling  smile.  "  Oh,  do  you  think  you  can 
manage  it?  "  she  whispered  rapturously,  to  which  I 
replied — as  vaguely  as  I  could — that  the  demands 
of  scientific  research  upon  the  time  of  its  followers 
were  apt  to  be  exorbitant. 

Tables  and  coffee  were  waiting  on  the  broad  ter- 
race below,  with  a  big  moon  rising  in  the  sky.  I 
descended  the  steps  in  charge  of  this  pretty  cavalier, 
allowed  her  to  seat  me  at  the  most  remote  of  the 
tables,  and  accepted  without  unwillingness  other  gal- 
lantries of  hers  in  the  matter  of  coffee  and  cigarettes. 
"  And  now,"  she  said,  "  now  that  I've  done  so  much 
for  your  dearest  hopes  and  comfort,  look  up  at  the 
milky  moon,  and  tell  me  all!  " 

"  If  you  can  bear  it?  " 

She  leaned  an  elbow  on  the  marble  railing  that 
protected  the  terrace,  and,  shielding  her  eyes  from 
the  moonlight  with  her  hand,  affected  to  gaze  at  me 
dramatically.  "  Have  no  distrust,"  she  bade  me. 
"  Who  and  what  is  the  glorious  stranger  ?  " 

Resisting  an  impulse  to  chime  in  with  her  humour, 
I  gave  her  so  dry  and  commonplace  an  account  of 
[159] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

my  young  friend  at  the  inn  that  I  presently  found 
myself  abandoned  to  solitude  again. 

"  I  don't  know  where  to  go,"  she  complained  as 
she  rose.  "  These  other  people  are  most  painful  to 
a  girl  of  my  intelligence,  but  I  cannot  linger  by 
your  side;  untruth  long  ago  lost  its  interest  for  me, 
and  I  prefer  to  believe  Mr.  Jean  Ferret — if  that  is 
the  gentleman's  name.  I'd  join  Miss  Ward  and  Cres- 
sie  Ingle  yonder,  but  Cressie  would  be  indignant!  I 
shall  soothe  my  hurt  with  sweetest  airs.  Adieu." 

With  that  she  made  me  a  solemn  courtesy  and 
departed,  a  pretty  little  figure,  not  little  in  attract- 
iveness, the  strong  moonlight,  tinged  with  blue,  shim- 
mering over  her  blond  hair  and  splashing  brightly 
among  the  ripples  of  her  silks  and  laces.  She  swept 
across  the  terrace  languidly,  offering  an  effect  of 
comedy  not  unfairylike,  and,  ascending  the  steps  of 
the  veranda,  disappeared  into  the  orange  candle-light 
of  a  salon.  A  moment  later  some  chords  were  sounded 
firmly  upon  a  piano  in  that  room,  and  a  bitter  song 
swam  out  to  me  over  the  laughter  and  talk  of  the 
people  at  the  other  tables.  It  was  to  be  observed 
that  Miss  Anne  Elliott  sang  very  well,  though  I 
thought  she  over-emphasised  one  line  of  the  stanza: 
[160] 


Chapter  Eleven 

"  This  world  is  a  world  of  lies!  " 

Perhaps  she  had  poisoned  another  little  arrow  for 
me,  too.  Impelled  by  the  fine  night,  the  groups  upon 
the  terrace  were  tending  toward  a  wider  dispersal, 
drifting  over  the  sloping  lawns  by  threes  and 
couples,  and  I  was  able  to  identify  two  figures  thread- 
ing the  paths  of  the  garden,  together,  some  distance 
below.  Judging  by  the  pace  they  kept,  I  should  not 
have  concluded  that  Miss  Ward  and  Mr.  Cresson 
Ingle  sought  the  healthful  effects  of  exercise.  How- 
ever, I  could  see  no  good  reason  for  wishing  their 
conversation  less  obviously  absorbing,  though  Miss 
Elliott's  insinuation  that  Mr.  Ingle  might  deplore 
intrusion  upon  the  interview  had  struck  me  as  too 
definite  to  be  altogether  pleasing.  Still,  such  matters 
could  not  discontent  me  with  my  solitude.  Eastward, 
over  the  moonlit  roof  of  the  forest,  I  could  see  the 
quiet  ocean,  its  unending  lines  of  foam  moving  slow- 
ly to  the  long  beaches,  too  far  away  to  be  heard. 
The  reproachful  voice  of  the  singer  came  no  more 
from  the  house,  but  the  piano  ran  on  into  "  La  Vie 
de  Boheme,"  and  out  of  that  into  something  else, 
I  did  not  know  what,  but  it  seemed  to  be  music; 
at  least  it  was  musical  enough  to  bring  before  me 
[161] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

some  memory  of  the  faces  of  pretty  girls  I  had 
danced  with  long  ago  in  my  dancing  days,  so  that, 
what  with  the  music,  and  the  distant  sea,  and  the 
soft  air,  so  sparklingly  full  of  moonshine,  and  the 
little  dancing  memories,  I  was  floated  off  into  a 
reverie  that  was  like  a  prelude  for  the  person  who 
broke  it.  She  came  so  quietly  that  I  did  not  hear  her 
until  she  was  almost  beside  me  and  spoke  to  me.  It 
was  the  second  time  that  had  happened. 


[162] 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

MRS.  HARMAN,"  I  said,  as  she  took  the 
chair  vacated   by   the    elfin   young   lady, 
"  you  see  I  can  manage  it !  But  perhaps 
I  control  myself  better  when  there's  no  camp-stool 
to  inspire  me.  You  remember  my  woodland  didoes — 
I  fear?" 

She  smiled  in  a  pleasant,  comprehending  way, 
but  neither  directly  replied  nor  made  any  return 
speech  whatever;  instead,  she  let  her  forearms  rest 
on  the  broad  railing  of  the  marble  balustrade,  and, 
leaning  forward,  gazed  out  over  the  shining  and 
mysterious  slopes  below.  Somehow  it  seemed  to  me 
that  her  not  answering,  and  her  quiet  action,  as  well 
as  the  thoughtful  attitude  in  which  it  culminated, 
would  have  been  thought  "  very  like  her  "  by  any 
one  who  knew  her  well.  "  Cousin  Louise  has  her 
ways,"  Miss  Elizabeth  had  told  me;  this  was  prob- 
ably one  of  them,  and  I  found  it  singularly  attract- 
ive. For  that  matter,  from  the  day  of  my  first  sight 
[163] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

of  her  in   the  woods   I  had  needed  no   prophet   to 
tell  me  I  should  like  Mrs.  Harman's  ways. 

"  After  the  quiet  you  have  had  here,  all  this  must 
seem,"  I  said,  looking  down  upon  the  strollers,  "  a 
usurpation." 

"  Oh,  they! "  She  disposed  of  Quesnay's  guests 
with  a  slight  movement  of  her  left  hand.  "  You're  an 
old  friend  of  my  cousins' — of  both  of  them;  but 
even  without  that,  I  know  you  understand.  Elizabeth 
does  it  all  for  her  brother,  of  course." 

"  But  she  likes  it,"  I  said. 

"  And  Mr.  Ward  likes  it,  too,"  she  added  slowly. 
"  You'll  see,  when  he  comes  home." 

Night's  effect  upon  me  being  always  to  make  me 
venturesome,  I  took  a  chance,  and  ventured  perhaps 
too  far.  "  I  hope  we'll  see  many  happy  things  when 
he  comes  home." 

"  It's  her  doing  things  of  this  sort,"  she  said, 
giving  no  sign  of  having  heard  my  remark,  "  that 
has  helped  so  much  to  make  him  the  success  that 
he  is." 

"  It's  what  has  been  death  to  his  art ! "  I  ex- 
claimed, too  quickly — and  would  have  been  glad  to 
recall  the  speech. 

[164] 


Chapter  Twelve 

She  met  it  with  a  murmur  of  low  laughter  that 
sounded  pitying.  "  Wasn't  it  always  a  dubious  rela- 
tion— between  him  and  art  ?  "  And  without  awaiting 
an  answer,  she  went  on,  "  So  it's  all  the  better  that 
he  can  have  his  success ! " 

To  this  I  had  nothing  whatever  to  say.  So  far 
as  I  remembered,  I  had  never  before  heard  a  woman 
put  so  much  comprehension  of  a  large  subject  into 
so  few  words,  but  in  my  capacity  as  George's  friend, 
hopeful  for  his  happiness,  it  made  me  a  little  uneasy. 
During  the  ensuing  pause  this  feeling,  at  first  up- 
permost, gave  way  to  another  not  at  all  in  sequence, 
but  irresponsible  and  intuitive,  that  she  had  some- 
thing in  particular  to  say  to  me,  had  joined  me  for 
that  purpose,  and  was  awaiting  the  opportunity. 
As  I  have  made  open  confession,  my  curiosity  never 
needed  the  spur;  and  there  is  no  denying  that  this 
impression  set  it  off  on  the  gallop ;  but  evidently  the 
moment  had  not  come  for  her  to  speak.  She  seemed 
content  to  gaze  out  over  the  valley  in  silence. 

"  Mr.  Cresson  Ingle,"  I  hazarded ;  "  is  he  an  old, 
new  friend  of  your  cousins?  I  think  he  was  not 
above  the  horizon  when  I  went  to  Capri,  two 


years  ago." 


£165] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  He  wants  Elizabeth,"  she  returned,  adding  quiet- 
ly, "  as  you've  seen."  And  when  I  had  verified  this 
assumption  with  a  monosyllable,  she  continued,  "  He's 
an  *  available,'  but  I  should  hate  to  have  it  happen. 
He's  hard." 

"  He  doesn't  seem  very  hard  toward  her,"  I  mur- 
mured, looking  down  into  the  garden  where  Mr.  Ingle 
just  then  happened  to  be  adjusting  a  scarf  about  his 
hostess's  shoulders. 

"  He's  led  a  detestable  life,"  said  Mrs.  Harman, 
"  among  detestable  people !  " 

She  spoke  with  sudden,  remarkable  vigour,  and  as 
if  she  knew.  The  full-throated  emphasis  she  put  upon 
"  detestable  "  gave  the  word  the  sting  of  a  flagella- 
tion ;  it  rang  with  a  rightful  indignation  that 
brought  vividly  to  my  mind  the  thought  of  those 
three  years  in  Mrs.  Harman's  life  which  Eliza- 
beth said  "  hurt  one  to  think  of."  For  this  was 
the  lady  who  had  rejected  good  George  Ward 
to  run  away  with  a  man  much  deeper  in  all 
that  was  detestable  than  Mr.  Cresson  Ingle  could 
ever  be! 

"  He  seems  to  me  much  of  a  type  with  these 
others,"  I  said. 

[166] 


Chapter  Twelve 

"  Oh,  they  keep  their  surfaces  about  the  same." 

"  It  made  me  wish  /  had  a  little  more  surface 
to-night,"  I  laughed.  "I'd  have  fitted  better.  Miss 
Ward  is  different  at  different  times.  When  we  are 
alone  together  she  always  has  the  air  of  excusing, 
or  at  least  explaining,  these  people  to  me,  but  this 
evening  I've  had  the  disquieting  thought  that  per- 
haps she  also  explained  me  to  them." 

"  Oh,  no ! "  said  Mrs.  Harman,  turning  to  me 
quickly.  "  Didn't  you  see?  She  was  making  up  to 
Mr.  Ingle  for  this  morning.  It  came  out  that  she'd 
ridden  over  at  daylight  to  see  you;  Anne  Elliott 
discovered  it  in  some  way  and  told  him." 

This  presented  an  aspect  of  things  so  overwhelm- 
ingly novel  that  out  of  a  confusion  of  ideas  I  was 
atle  to  fasten  on  only  one  with  which  to  continue 
the  conversation,  and  I  said  irrelevantly  that  Miss 
Elliott  was  a  remarkable  young  woman.  At  this  my 
companion,  who  had  renewed  her  observation  of  the 
valley,  gave  me  a  full,  clear  look  of  earnest  scrutiny, 
which  set  me  on  the  alert,  for  I  thought  that  now 
what  she  desired  to  say  was  coming.  But  I  was  dis- 
appointed, for  she  spoke  lightly,  with  a  ripple  of 
amusement. 

[167] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  I  suppose  she  finished  her  investigations  ?  You 
told  her  all  you  could  ?  " 

"  Almost." 

"  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  trust  me  with  the  reser- 
vation ?  "  she  asked,  smiling. 

"  I  would  trust  you  with  anything,"  I  answered 
seriously. 

"You  didn't  gratify  that  child?'  she  said,  half 
laughing.  Then,  to  my  surprise,  her  tone  changed 
suddenly,  and  she  began  again  in  a  hurried  low 
voice :  "  You  didn't  tell  her — "  and  stopped  there, 
breathless  and  troubled,  letting  me  see  that  I  had 
been  right  after  all:  this  was  what  she  wanted  to 
talk  about. 

"  I  didn't  tell  her  that  young  Saffren  is  mad,  no ; 
if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't,"  she  said  slowly,  sinking 
back  in  her  chair  so  that  her  face  was  in  the  shadow 
of  the  awning  which  sheltered  the  little  table  be- 
tween us. 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  wouldn't  have  told  her  even 
if  it  were  true,"  I  returned,  "  and  in  the  second,  it 
isn't  true — though  you  have  some  reason  to  think  it 
is,"  I  added. 

[168] 


Chapter  Twelve 

"7?"  she  said.  "Why?" 

"  His  speaking  to  you  as  he  did ;  a  thing  on  the 
face  of  it  inexcusable " 

"  Why  did  he  call  me  4  Madame  d'Armand  '  ?  "  she 
interposed. 

I  explained  something  of  the  mental  processes  of 
Amedee,  and  she  listened  till  I  had  finished;  then 
bade  me  continue. 

"  That's  all,"  I  said  blankly,  but,  with  a  second 
thought,  caught  her  meaning.  "  Oh,  about  young 
Saffren,  you  mean?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  know  him  pretty  well,"  I  said,  "  without  really 
knowing  anything  about  him;  but  what  is  stranger, 
I  believe  he  doesn't  really  know  a  great  deal  about 
himself.  Of  course  I  have  a  theory  about  him,  though 
it's  vague.  My  idea  is  that  probably  through  some 
great  illness  he  lost — not  his  faculty  of  memory, 
but  his  memories,  or,  at  least,  most  of  them.  In 
regard  to  what  he  does  remember,  Professor  Keredec 
has  anxiously  impressed  upon  him  some  very  poig- 
nant necessity  for  reticence.  What  the  necessity  may 
be,  or  the  nature  of  the  professor's  anxieties,  I  do 
not  know,  but  I  think  Keredec's  reasons  must  be 
[169] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

good  ones.  That's  all,  except  that  there's  something 
about  the  young  man  that  draws  one  to  him:  I 
couldn't  tell  you  how  much  I  like  him,  nor  how 
sorry  I  am  that  he  offended  you." 

"  He  didn't  offend  me,"  she  murmured — almost 
whispered. 

"  He  didn't  mean  to,"  I  said  warmly.  "  You  under- 
stood that?" 

"Yes,  I  understood." 

"  I  am  glad.  I'd  been  waiting  the  chance"  to  try 
to  explain — to  ask  you  to  pardon  him " 

"  But  there  wasn't  any  need." 

"  You  mean  because  you  understood " 

"  No,"  she  interrupted  gently,  "  not  only  that.  I 

./ 
mean  because  he  has  done  it  himself." 

"  Asked  your  pardon  ?  "  I  said,  in  complete  sur- 
prise. 

"  Yes." 

"  He's  written  you  ?  "  I  cried. 

"  No.  I  saw  him  to-day,"  she  answered.  "  This  af- 
ternoon when  I  went  for  my  walk,  he  was  waiting 
where  the  paths  intersect " 

Some  hasty  ejaculation,  I  do  not  know  what,  came 
from  me,  but  she  lifted  her  hand. 
[170] 


Chapter  Twelve 

"  Wait,"  she  said  quietly.  "  As  soon  as  he  saw  me 
he  came  straight  toward  me " 

"  Oh,  but  this  won't  do  at  all,"  I  broke  out.  "  It's 
too  bad " 

"  Wait."  She  leaned  forward  slightly,  lifting 
her  hand  again.  "  He  called  me  *  Madame  d'Ar- 
mand,'  and  said  he  must  know  if  he  had  offended 
me." 

"  You  told  him " 

"  I  told  him  *  No ! '  "  And  it  seemed  to  me  that 
her  voice,  which  up  to  this  point  had  been  low  but 
very  steady,  shook  upon  the  monosyllable.  "  He 
walked  with  me  a  little  way — perhaps  it  was 
longer " 

"  Trust  me  that  it  sha'n't  happen  again ! "  I  ex- 
claimed. "  I'll  see  that  Keredec  knows  of  this  at  once. 
He  will " 

"  No,  no,'*  she  interrupted  quickly,  "  that  is 
just  what  I  want  you  not  to  do.  Will  you  promise 
me?" 

"  I'll  promise  anything  you  ask  me.  But  didn't 
he  frighten  you?  Didn't  he  talk  wildly?  Didn't 
he " 

"  He  didn't  frighten  me — not  as  you  mean.  He 
[171] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

was  very  quiet  and — "  She  broke  off  unexpectedly, 
with  a  little  pitying  cry,  and  turned  to  me,  lifting 
both  hands  appealingly — "  And  oh,  doesn't  he  make 
one  sorry  for  him !  " 

That  was  just  it.  She  had  gone  straight  to  the 
heart  of  his  mystery :  his  strangeness  was  the  strange 
pathos  that  invested  him ;  the  "  singularity "  of 
"  that  other  monsieur "  was  solved  for  me  at 
last. 

When  she  had  spoken  she  rose,  advanced  a  step, 
and  stood  looking  out  over  the  valley  again,  her 
skirts  pressing  the  balustrade.  One  of  the  moments 
in  my  life  when  I  have  wished  to  be  a  figure  painter 
came  then,  as  she  raised  her  arms,  the  sleeves,  of 
some  filmy  texture,  falling  back  from  them  with  the 
gesture,  and  clasped  her  hands  lightly  behind  her 
neck,  the  graceful  angle  of  her  chin  uplifted  to  the 
full  rain  of  moonshine.  Little  Miss  Elliott,  in  the 
glamour  of  these  same  blue  showerings,  had  borrowed 
gauzy  weavings  of  the  fay  and  the  sprite,  but  Mrs. 
Harman — tall,  straight,  delicate  to  fragility,  yet 
not  to  thinness — was  transfigured  with  a  deeper 
meaning,  wearing  the  sadder,  richer  colours  of  the 
tragedy  that  her  cruel  young  romance  had  put  upon 
[172] 


Chapter  Twelve 

her.  She  might  have  posed  as  she  stood  against  the 
marble  railing — and  especially  in  that  gesture  of 
lifting  her  arms — for  a  bearer  of  the  gift  at  some 
foredestined  luckless  ceremony  of  votive  offerings.  So 
it  seemed,  at  least,  to  the  eyes  of  a  moon-dazed  old 
painter-man. 

She  stood  in  profile  to  me;  there  were  some  jas- 
mine flowers  at  her  breast ;  I  could  see  them  rise  and 
fall  with  more  than  deep  breathing;  and  I  wondered 
what  the  man  who  had  talked  of  her  so  wildly,  only 
yesterday,  would  feel  if  he  could  know  that  already 
the  thought  of  him  had  moved  her. 

"  I  haven't  had  my  life.  It's  gone !  "  It  was  almost 
as  if  I  heard  his  voice,  close  at  hand,  with  all  the 
passion  of  regret  and  protest  that  rang  in  the  words 
when  they  broke  from  him  in  the  forest.  And  by 
some  miraculous  con j  ecture,  within  the  moment  I 
seemed  not  only  to  hear  his  voice  but  actually  to  see 
him,  a  figure  dressed  in  white,  far  below  us  and  small 
with  the  distance,  standing  out  in  the  moonlight  in 
the  middle  of  the  tree-bordered  avenue  leading  to  the 
chateau  gates. 

I  rose  and  leaned  over  the  railing.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  the  reality  of  the  figure  in  white,  though 
[173] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

it  was  too  far  away  to  be  identified  with  certainty ; 
and  as  I  rubbed  my  eyes  for  clearer  sight,  it  turned 
and  disappeared  into  the  shadows  of  the  orderly 
grove  where  I  had  stood,  one  day,  to  watch  Louise 
Harman  ascend  the  slopes  of  Quesnay. 

But  I  told  myself,  sensibly,  that  more  than 
one  man  on  the  coast  of  Normandy  might  be 
wearing  white  flannels  that  evening,  and,  turning 
to  my  companion,  found  that  she  had  moved 
some  steps  away  from  me  and  was  gazing  eastward 
to  the  sea.  I  concluded  that  she  had  not  seen  the 
figure. 

"  I  have  a  request  to  make  of  you,"  she  said,  as  I 
turned.  "  Will  you  do  it  for  me — setting  it  down 
just  as  a  whim,  if  you  like,  and  letting  it  go  at 
that?" 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  I  answered  promptly.  "  I'll  do  any- 
thing you  ask." 

She  stepped  closer,  looked  at  me  intently  for  a 
second,  bit  her  lip  in  indecision,  then  said,  all  in  a 
breath : 

"  Don't  tell  Mr.  Saffren  my  name !  " 

"  But  I  hadn't  meant  to,"  I  protested. 

"  Don't  speak  of  me  to  him  at  all,"  she  said,  with 
[174] 


Chapter  Twelve 

the  same  hurried  eagerness.  "  Will  you  let  me  have 
my  way?  " 

"  Could  there  be  any  question  of  that?  "  I  replied, 
and  to  my  astonishment  found  that  we  had  somehow 
impulsively  taken  each  other's  hands,  as  upon  a  seri- 
ous bargain  struck  between  us. 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

THE  round  moon  was  white  and  at  its  small- 
est, high  overhead,  when  I  stepped  out  of 
the  phaeton  in  which  Miss   Elizabeth  sent 
me    back    to    Madame    Brossard's;    midnight    was 
twanging    from    a    rusty    old    clock    indoors    as    I 
crossed  the  fragrant  courtyard  to  my  pavilion;  but 
a  lamp  still  burned  in  the  salon   of  the  "  Grande 
Suite,"    a   light    to   my    mind   more    suggestive    of 
the    patient    watcher    than    of    the    scholar    at    his 
tome. 

When  my  own  lamp  was  extinguished,  I  set  my 
door  ajar,  moved  my  bed  out  Ifrom  the  wall  to  catch 
whatever  breeze  might  stir,  <:  composed  myself  for 
the  night,"  as  it  used  to  be  written,  and  lay  looking 
out  upon  the  quiet  garden  where  a  thin  white  haze 
was  rising.  If,  in  taking  this  coign  of  vantage,  I  had 
any  subtler  purpose  than  to  seek  a  draught  against 
the  warmth  of  the  night,  it  did  not  fail  of  its  reward, 
for  just  as  I  had  begun  to  drowse,  the  gallery  steps 
[176] 


Chapter  Thirteen 

creaked  as  if  beneath  some  immoderate  weight,  and 
the  noble  form  of  Keredec  emerged  upon  my  field  of 
vision.  From  the  absence  of  the  sound  of  footsteps 
I  supposed  him  to  be  either  barefooted  or  in  his 
stockings.  His  visible  costume  consisted  of  a  sleep- 
ing jacket  tucked  into  a  pair  of  trousers,  while  his 
tousled  hair  and  beard  and  generally  tossed  and  rum- 
pled look  were  those  of  a  man  who  had  been  lying 
down  temporarily. 

I  heard  him  sigh — like  one  sighing  for  sleep — as 
he  went  noiselessly  across  the  garden  and  out 
through  the  archway  to  the  road.  At  that  I  sat 
straight  up  in  bed  to  stare — and  well  I  might,  for 
here  was  a  miracle!  He  had  lifted  his  arms  above  his 
head  to  stretch  himself  comfortably,  and  he  walked 
upright  and  at  ease,  whereas  when  I  had  last  seen 
him,  the  night  before,  he  had  been  able  to  do  little 
more  than  crawl,  bent  far  over  and  leaning  painfully 
upon  his  friend.  Never  man  beheld  a  more  astonishing 
recovery  from  a  bad  case  of  rheumatism! 

After  a  long  look  down  the  road,  he  retraced  his 

steps ;  and  the  moonlight,  striking  across  his  great 

forehead  as  he  came,  revealed  the  furrows  ploughed 

there  by  an  anxiety  of  which  I  guessed  the  cause. 

[177] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

The  creaking  of  the  wooden  stairs  and  gallery  and 
the  whine  of  an  old  door  announced  that  he  had 
returned  to  his  vigil. 

I  had,  perhaps,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  consider 
this  performance,  when  it  was  repeated;  now,  how- 
ever, he  only  glanced  out  into  the  road,  retreating 
hastily,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  smiling,  while  the 
speed  he  maintained  in  returning  to  his  quarters  was 
remarkable  for  one  so  newly  convalescent. 

The  next  moment  Saffren  came  through  the  arch- 
way, ascended  the  steps  in  turn — but  slowly  and 
carefully,  as  if  fearful  of  waking  his  guardian — and 
I  heard  his  door  closing,  very  gently.  Long  before 
his  arrival,  however,  I  had  been  certain  of  his  iden- 
tity with  the  figure  I  had  seen  gazing  up  at  the 
terraces  of  Quesnay  from  the  borders  of  the  grove. 
Other  questions  remained  to  bother  me:  Why  had 
Keredec  not  prevented  this  night-roving,  and  why, 
since  he  did  permit  it,  should  he  conceal  his  knowl- 
edge of  it  from  Oliver?  And  what,  oh,  what  won- 
drous specific  had  the  mighty  man  found  for  his 
disease  ? 

Morning  failed  to  clarify  these  mysteries;  it 
brought,  however,  something  rare  and  rich  and 
[178] 


Chapter  Thirteen 

strange.  I  allude  to  the  manner  of  Amedee's  ap- 
proach. The  aged  gossip-demoniac  had  to  recognise 
the  fact  that  he  could  not  keep  out  of  my  way  for 
ever;  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  put  as  good 
a  face  as  possible  upon  a  bad  business,  and  get  it 
over — and  the  face  he  selected  was  a  marvel;  not 
less,  and  in  no  hasty  sense  of  the  word. 

It  appeared  at  my  door  to  announce  that  break- 
fast waited  outside. 

Primarily  it  displayed  an  expression  of  serenity, 
masterly  in  its  assumption  that  not  the  least,  remot- 
est, dreamiest  shadow  of  danger  could  possibly  be  con- 
ceived, by  the  most  immoderately  pessimistic  and  sin- 
ister imagination,  as  even  vaguely  threatening.  And 
for  the  rest,  you  have  seen  a  happy  young  mother 
teaching  first  steps  to  the  first-born — that  was  Am6- 
dee.  Radiantly  tender,  aggressively  solicitous,  dif- 
fusing ineffable  sweetness  on  the  air,  wreathed  in 
seraphic  smiles,  beaming  caressingly,  and  aglow  with 
a  sacred  joy  that  I  should  be  looking  so  well,  he 
greeted  me  in  a  voice  of  honey  and  bowed  me  to 
my  repast  with  an  unconcealed  fondness  at  once 
maternal  and  reverential. 

I  did  not  attempt  to  speak.  I  came  out  silently, 
[179] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

uncannily  fascinated,  my  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  while 
he  moved  gently  backward,  cooing  pleasant  words 
about  the  coffee,  but  just  perceptibly  keeping  him- 
self out  of  arm's  reach  until  I  had  taken  my  seat. 
When  I  had  done  that,  he  leaned  over  the  table  and 
began  to  set  useless  things  nearer  my  plate  with 
frankly  affectionate  care.  It  chanced  that  in  "  mak- 
ing a  long  arm "  to  reach  something  I  did  want, 
my  hand  (of  which  the  fingers  happened  to  be  closed) 
passed  rather  impatiently  beneath  his  nose.  The  ma- 
donna expression  changed  instantly  to  one  of  horror, 
he  uttered  a  startled  croak,  and  took  a  surprisingly 
long  skip  backward,  landing  in  the  screen  of  honey- 
suckle vines,  which,  he  seemed  to  imagine,  were  some 
new  form  of  hostility  attacking  him  treacherously 
from  the  rear.  They  sagged,  but  did  not  break  from 
their  fastenings,  and  his  behaviour,  as  he  lay  thus 
entangled,  would  have  contrasted  unfavourably  in 
dignity  with  the  actions  of  a  panicstricken  hen  in 
a  hammock. 

"  And  so  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all," 
I  said,  with  no  hope  of  being  understood. 

Recovering  some  measure  of  mental  equilibrium  at 
the  same  time  that  he  managed  to  find  his  feet, 
[180] 


Chapter  Thirteen 

he  burst  Into  shrill  laughter,  to  which  he  tried  in 
vain  to  impart  a  ring  of  debonair  carelessness. 

"  Eh,  I  stumble !  "  he  cried  with  hollow  merriment. 
"  I  fall  about  and  faint  with  fatigue !  Pah !  But 
it  is  nothing ;  truly !  " 

"  Fatigue ! "  I  turned  a  bitter  sneer  upon  him. 
"Fatigue!  And  you  just  out  of  bed!" 

His  fat  hands  went  up  palm  outward;  his  heroic 
laughter  was  checked  as  with  a  sob ;  an  expression 
of  tragic  incredulity  shone  from  his  eyes.  Patently 
he  doubted  the  evidence  of  his  own  ears;  could  not 
believe  that  such  black  ingratitude  existed  in  the 
world.  "  Absalom,  O  my  son  Absalom ! "  was  his 
unuitered  cry.  His  hands  fell  to  his  sides;  his  chin 
sank  wretchedly  into  its  own  folds;  his  shirt-bosom 
heaved  and  crinkled;  arrows  of  unspeakable  injustice 
had  entered  the  defenceless  breast. 

"  Just  out  of  bed ! "  he  repeated,  with  a  pathos 
that  would  have  brought  the  judge  of  any  court 
in  France  down  from  the  bench  to  kiss  him —  "  And 
I  had  risen  long,  long  before  the  dawn,  in  the  cold 
and  darkness  of  the  night,  to  prepare  the  sandwiches 
of  monsieur ! " 

It  was  too  much  for  me,  or  rather,  he  was.   I 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

stalked  off  to  the  woods  in  a  state  of  helpless  indig- 
nation ;  mentally  swearing  that  his  day  of  punish- 
ment at  my  hands  was  only  deferred,  not  abandoned, 
yet  secretly  fearing  that  this  very  oath  might  live 
for  no  purpose  but  to  convict  me  of  perjury. 
His  talents  were  lost  in  the  country;  he  should 
have  sought  his  fortune  in  the  metropolis.  And 
his  manner,  as  he  summoned  me  that  evening  to 
dinner,  and  indeed  throughout  the  courses,  partook 
of  the  subtle  condescension  and  careless  assurance 
of  one  who  has  but  faintly  enjoyed  some  too  easy 
triumph. 

I  found  this  so  irksome  that  I  might  have  been 
goaded  into  an  outbreak  of  impotent  fury,  had  my 
attention  not  been  distracted  by  the  curious  turn  of 
the  professor's  malady,  which  had  renewed  its  pain- 
ful assault  upon  him.  He  came  hobbling  to  table, 
leaning  upon  Saffren's  shoulder,  and  made  no  refer- 
ence to  his  singular  improvement  of  the  night  be- 
fore— nor  did  I.  His  rheumatism  was  his  own ;  he 
might  do  what  he  pleased  with  it!  There  was  no 
reason  why  he  should  confide  the  cause  of  its  vaga- 
ries to  me. 

Table-talk  ran  its  normal  course;  a  great  Pole's 
[182] 


Chapter  Thirteen 

philosophy  receiving  flagellation  at  the  hands  of  our 
incorrigible  optimist.  ("  If  he  could  understand," 
exclaimed  Keredec,  "  that  the  individual  must  be 
immortal  before  it  is  born,  ha!  then  this  babbler 
might  have  writted  some  intelligence!")  On  the  sur- 
face everything  was  as  usual  with  our  trio,  with 
nothing  to  show  any  turbulence  of  undercurrents, 
unless  it  was  a  certain  alertness  in  Oliver's  manner, 
a  restrained  excitement,  and  the  questioning  rest- 
lessness of  his  eyes  as  they  sought  mine  from  time 
to  time.  Whatever  he  wished  to  ask  me,  he  was  given 
no  opportunity,  for  the  professor  carried  him  off  to 
work  when  our  coffee  was  finished.  As  they  departed, 
the  young  man  glanced  back  at  me  over  his  shoulder, 
with  that  same  earnest  look  of  interrogation,  but  it 
went  unanswered  by  any  token  or  gesture:  for 
though  I  guessed  that  he  wished  to  know  if  Mrs. 
Harman  had  spoken  of  him  to  me,  it  seemed  part  of 
my  bargain  with  her  to  give  him  no  sign  that  I 
understood. 

A  note  lay  beside  my  plate  next  morning,  ad- 
dressed in  a  writing  strange  to  me,  one  of  dashing 
and  vigorous  character. 

[183] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  In  the  pursuit  of  thrillingly  scientific  research," 
it  read,  "  what  with  the  tumult  which  possessed  me, 
I  forgot  to  mention  the  bond  that  links  us ;  I,  too, 
am  a  painter,  though  as  yet  unhonoured  and  unhung. 
It  must  be  only  because  I  lack  a  gentle  hand  to  guide 
me.  If  I  might  sit  beside  you  as  you  paint !  The  hours 
pass  on  leaden  wings  at  Quesnay — I  could  shriek !  Do 
not  refuse  me  a  few  words  of  instruction,  either  in 
the  wildwood,  whither  I  could  support  your  shrink- 
ing steps,  or,  from  time  to  time,  as  you  work  in 
your  studio,  which  (I  glean  from  the  instructive 
Mr.  Ferret)  is  at  Les  Trols  Pigeons.  At  any  hour, 
at  any  moment,  I  will  speed  to  you.  I  am,  sir, 

"  Yours,  if  you  will  but  breathe  a  *  yes,' 

"  ANNE  ELLIOTT." 

To  this  I  returned  a  reply,  as  much  in  her  own 
key  as  I  could  write  it,  putting  my  refusal  on  the 
ground  that  I  was  not  at  present  painting  in  the 
studio.  I  added  that  I  hoped  her  suit  might  prosper, 
regretting  that  I  could  not  be  of  greater  assistance 
to  that  end,  and  concluded  with  the  suggestion  that 
Madame  Brossard  might  entertain  an  offer  for  les- 
sons in  cooking. 

[184] 


Chapter  Thirteen 

The  result  of  my  attempt  to  echo  her  vivacity 
was  discomfiting,  and  I  was  allowed  to  perceive 
that  epistolary  jocularity  was  not  thought  to  be 
my  line.  It  was  Miss  Elizabeth  who  gave  me  this 
instruction  three  days  later,  on  the  way  to  Quesnay 
for  "  second  breakfast."  Exercising  fairly  shame- 
faced diplomacy,  I  had  avoided  dining  at  the  chateau 
again,  but,  by  arrangement,  she  had  driven  over  for 
me  this  morning  in  the  phaeton. 

"  Why  are  you  writing  silly  notes  to  that  child?  " 
she  demanded,  as  soon  as  we  were  away  from  the  inn. 

"Was  it  silly?" 

"  You  should  know.  Do  you  think  that  style  of 
humour  suitable  for  a  young  girl?  " 

This  bewildered  me  a  little.  "  But  there  wasn't 
anything  offensive " 

"  No  ?  "  Miss  Elizabeth  lifted  her  eyebrows  to  a 
height  of  bland  inquiry.  "  She  mightn't  think  it 
rather — well,  rough?  Your  suggesting  that  she 
should  take  cooking  lessons  ?  " 

"  But  she  suggested  she  might  take  painting  les- 
sons," was  my  feeble  protest.  "  I  only  meant  to  show 
her  I  understood  that  she  wanted  to  get  to  the 
inn." 

[185] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  And  why  should  she  care  to  '  get  to  the  inn  '  5  " 

"  She  seemed  interested  in  a  young  man  who  is 
staying  there.  '  Interested '  is  the  mildest  word  for 
it  I  can  think  of." 

"  Pooh !  "  Such  was  Miss  Ward's  enigmatic  re- 
tort, and  though  I  begged  an  explanation  I  got  none. 
Instead,  she  quickened  the  horse's  gait  and  changed 
the  subject. 

At  the  chateau,  having  a  mind  to  offer  some  sort 
of  apology,  I  looked  anxiously  about  for  the  subject 
of  our  rather  disquieting  conversation,  but  she  was 
not  to  be  seen  until  the  party  assembled  at  the  table, 
set  under  an  awning  on  the  terrace.  Then,  to  my 
disappointment,  I  found  no  opportunity  to  speak  to 
her,  for  her  seat  was  so  placed  as  to  make  it  impos- 
sible, and  she  escaped  into  the  house  immediately 
upon  the  conclusion  of  the  repast,  hurrying  away 
too  pointedly  for  any  attempt  to  detain  her — though, 
as  she  passed,  she  sent  me  one  glance  of  meek  re- 
proach which  she  was  at  pains  to  make  elaborately 
distinct. 

Again  taking  me  for  her  neighbour  at  the  table, 
Miss  Elizabeth  talked  to  me  at  intervals,  apparently 
having  nothing,  just  then,  to  make  up  to  Mr.  Cres- 
[186] 


Chapter  Thirteen 

son  Ingle,  but  not  long  after  we  rose  she  accom- 
panied him  upon  some  excursion  'of  an  indefinite 
nature,  which  led  her  from  my  sight.  Thus,  the 
others  making  off  to  cards  indoors  and  what  not, 
I  was  left  to  the  perusal  of  the  eighteenth  century 
facade  of  the  chateau,  one  of  the  most  competent 
restorations  in  that  part  of  France,  and  of  the  live- 
liest interest  to  the  student  or  practitioner  of  archi- 
tecture. 

Mrs.  Harman  had  not  appeared  at  all,  having 
gone  to  call  upon  some  one  at  Dives,  I  was  told, 
and  a  servant  informing  me  (on  inquiry)  that  Miss 
Elliott  had  retired  to  her  room,  I  was  thrust  upon 
my  own  devices  indeed,  a  condition  already  closely 
associated  in  my  mind  with  this  picturesque  spot. 
The  likeliest  of  my  devices — or,  at  least,  the  one  I 
hit  upon — was  in  the  nature  of  an  unostentatious 
retreat. 

I  went  home. 

However,  as  the  day  was  spoiled  for  work,  I  chose 
a  roundabout  way,  in  fact  the  longest,  and  took  the 
high-road  to  Dives,  but  neither  the  road  nor  the 
town  itself  (when  I  passed  through  it)  rewarded  my 
vague  hope  that  I  might  meet  Mrs.  Harman,  and  I 
[187] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

strode  the  long  miles  in  considerable  disgruntlement, 
for  it  was  largely  in  that  hope  that  I  had  gone  to 
Quesnay.  It  put  me  in  no  merrier  mood  to  find  Miss 
Elizabeth's  phaeton  standing  outside  the  inn  in 
charge  of  a  groom,  for  my  vanity  encouraged  the 
supposition  that  she  had  come  out  of  a  fear  that 
my  unceremonious  departure  from  Quesnay  might 
have  indicated  that  I  was  "  hurt,"  or  considered  my- 
self neglected;  and  I  dreaded  having  to  make  ex- 
planations. 

My  apprehensions  were  unfounded;  it  was  not 
Miss  Elizabeth  who  had  come  in  the  phaeton,  though 
a  lady  from  Quesnay  did  prove  to  be  the  occu- 
pant— the  sole  occupant — of  the  courtyard.  At  sight 
of  her  I  halted  stock-still  under  the  archway. 

There  she  sat,  a  sketch-book  on  a  green  table 
beside  her  and  a  board  in  her  lap,  brazenly  paint- 
ing— and  a  more  blushless  piece  of  assurance  than 
Miss  Anne  Elliott  thus  engaged  these  eyes  have 
never  beheld. 

She  was  not  so  hardened  that  she  did  not  affect 

a  little  timidity  at  sight  of  me,  looking  away  even 

more  quickly  than   she  looked  up,  while  I   walked 

slowly  over  to  her  and  took  the  garden  chair  beside 

[188] 


Chapter  Thirteen 

her.  That  gave  me  a  view  of  her  sketch,  which  was 
a  violent  little  "  lay-in  "  of  shrubbery,  trees,  and  the 
sky-line  of  the  inn.  To  my  prodigious  surprise  (and, 
naturally  enough,  with  a  degree  of  pleasure)  I  per- 
ceived that  it  was  not  very  bad,  not  bad  at  all,  in- 
deed. It  displayed  a  sense  of  values,  of  placing,  and 
even,  in  a  young  and  frantic  way,  of  colour.  Here 
was  a  young  woman  of  more  than  "  accomplish- 
ments !  " 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  squeezing  one  of  the  tiny 
tubes  almost  dry,  and  continuing  to  paint  with  a 
fine  effect  of  absorption,  "  I  had  to  show  you  that  I 
was  in  the  most  abysmal  earnest.  Will  you  take  me 
painting  with  you?  " 

"  I  appreciate  your  seriousness,"  I  rejoined. 
"  Has  it  been  rewarded  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  say  ?  You  haven't  told  me  whether 
or  no  I  may  follow  you  to  the  wildwood." 

"  I  mean,  have  you  caught  another  glimpse  of 
Mr.  Saffren?" 

At  that  she  showed  a  prettier  colour  in  her  cheeks 
than  any  in  her  sketch-box,  but  gave  no  other  sign 
of  shame,  nor  even  of  being  flustered,  cheerfully  re- 
plying: 

[189] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  That  is  far  from  the  point.  Do  you  grant  my 
burning  plea  ?  " 

"  I  understood  I  had  offended  you." 

"  You  did,"  she  said.  "  Viciously!  " 

"  I  am  sorry,"  I  continued.  "  I  wanted  to  ask  you 
to  forgive  me " 

I  spoke  seriously,  and  that  seemed  to  strike  her  as 
odd  or  needing  explanation,  for  she  levelled  her  blue 
eyes  at  me,  and  interrupted,  with  something  more 
like  seriousness  in  her  own  voice  than  I  had  yet 
heard  from  her: 

"  What  made  you  think  I  was  offended?  " 

"  Your  look  of  reproach  when  you  left  the 
table " 

"  Nothing  else  ?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

"  Yes ;  Miss  Ward  told  me  you  were." 

"  Yes ;  she  drove  over  with  you.  That's  it ! "  she 
exclaimed  with  vigour,  and  nodded  her  head  as  if 
some  suspicion  of  hers  had  been  confirmed.  "  I 
thought  so !  " 

"You  thought  she  had  told  me?" 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Elliott  decidedly.  "  Thought  that 
Elizabeth  wanted  to  have  her  cake  and  eat  it  too." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

[190] 


Chapter  Thirteen 

"  Then  you'll  get  no  help  from  me,"  she  returned 
slowly,  a  frown  marking  her  pretty  forehead.  "  But 
I  was  only  playing  offended,  and  she  knew  it.  I 
thought  your  note  was  that  fetching !  " 

She  continued  to  look  thoughtful  for  a  moment 
longer,  then  with  a  resumption  of  her  former  man- 
ner— the  pretence  of  an  earnestness  much  deeper  than 
the  real — "Will  you  take  me  painting  with  you?" 
she  said.  "  If  it  will  convince  you  that  I  mean  it,  I'll 
give  up  my  hopes  of  seeing  that  sumptuous  Mr. 
Saffren  and  go  back  to  Quesnay  now,  before  he  comes 
home.  He's  been  out  for  a  walk — a  long  one,  since 
it's  lasted  ever  since  early  this  morning,  so  the  waiter 
told  me.  May  I  go  with  you?  You  can't  know  how 
enervating  it  is  up  there  at  the  chateau — all  except 
Mrs.  Harman,  and  even  she 

"  What  about  Mrs.  Harman  ? "  I  asked,  as  she 
paused. 

"  I  think  she  must  be  in  love." 

"What!" 

"  I  do  think  so,"  said  the  girl.  "  She's  like  it,  at 
least." 

"But  with  whom?" 

She  laughed  gaily.  "  I'm  afraid  she's  my  rival ! " 
[191] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Not  with—"  I  began. 

"  Yes,  with  your  beautiful  and  mad  young  friend." 

"  But — oh,  it's  preposterous !  "  I  cried,  profound- 
ly disturbed.  "  She  couldn't  be !  If  you  knew  a  great 
deal  about  her " 

"  I  may  know  more  than  you  think.  My  simplicity 
of  appearance  is  deceptive,"  she  mocked,  beginning 
to  set  her  sketch-box  in  order.  "  You  don't  realise 
that  Mrs.  Harman  and  I  are  quite  hurled  upon  each 
other  at  Quesnay,  being  two  ravishingly  intelligent 
women  entirely  surrounded  by  large  bodies  of  elemen- 
tals.  She  has  told  me  a  great  deal  of  herself  since 
that  first  evening,  and  I  know — well,  I  know  why  she 
did  not  come  back  from  Dives  this  afternoon,  for 
instance." 

"  Why?  "  I  fairly  shouted. 

She  slid  her  sketch  into  a  groove  in  the  box,  which 
she  closed,  and  rose  to  her  feet  before  answering. 
Then  she  set  her  hat  a  little  straighter  with  a  touch, 
looking  so  fixedly  and  with  such  grave  interest  over 
my  shoulder  that  I  turned  to  follow  her  glance  and 
encountered  our  reflections  in  a  window  of  the  inn. 
Her  own  shed  a  light  upon  that  mystery,  at  all 
events. 

[192] 


Chapter  Thirteen 

"  I  might  tell  you  some  day,"  she  said  indiffer- 
ently, "  if  I  gained  enough  confidence  in  you  througli 
association  in  daily  pursuits." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  I  cried  with  real  exas- 
peration, "  I  am  a  working  man,  and  this  is  a  work- 
ing summer  for  me !  " 

"  Do  you  think  I'd  spoil  it  ?  "  she  urged  gently. 

"  But  I  get  up  with  the  first  daylight  to  paint," 
I  protested,  "  and  I  paint  all  day " 

She  moved  a  step  nearer  me  and  laid  her  hand 
warningly  upon  my  sleeve,  checking  the  outburst. 

I  turned  to  see  what  she  meant. 

Oliver  Saffren  had  come  in  from  the  road  and  was 
crossing  to  the  gallery  steps.  He  lifted  his  hat  and 
gave  me  a  quick  word  of  greeting  as  he  passed,  and 
at  the  sight  of  his  flushed  and  happy  face  my  riddle 
was  solved  for  me.  Amazing  as  the  thing  was,  I 
had  no  doubt  of  the  revelation. 

"  Ah,"  I  said  to  Miss  Elliott  when  he  had  gone, 
"  I  won't  have  to  take  pupils  to  get  the  answer  to 
my  question,  now !  " 


[193] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

HA!,  these  philosophers,"  said  the  professor, 
expanding  in  discourse  a  little  later — • 
"  these  dreamy  people  who  talk  of  the 
spirit,  they  tell  you  that  spirit  is  abstract ! "  He 
waved  his  great  hand  in  a  sweeping  semicircle 
which  carried  it  out  of  our  orange  candle-light  and 
freckled  it  with  the  cold  moonshine  which  sieved 
through  the  loosened  screen  of  honeysuckle.  "  Ha, 
the  folly!" 

"  What  do  you  say  it  is  ?  "  I  asked,  moving  so  that 
the  smoke  of  my  cigar  should  not  drift  toward  Oliver, 
who  sat  looking  out  into  the  garden. 

"I,  my  friend?  I  do  not  say  that  it  is!  But  all 
such  things,  they  are  only  a  question  of  names,  and 
when  I  use  the  word  *  spirit '  I  mean  identity — uni- 
versal identity,  if  you  like.  It  is  what  we  all  are, 
yes — and  those  flowers,  too.  But  the  spirit  of  the 
flowers  is  not  what  you  smell,  nor  what  you  see, 
that  look  so  pretty:  it  is  the  flowers  themself !  Yet 
[194] 


Chapter  Fourteen 

all  spirit  is  only  one  spirit  and  one  spirit  is  all 
spirit — and  if  you  tell  me  this  is  Pant'eism  I  will 
tell  you  that  you  do  not  understand !  " 

"  I  don't  tell  you  that,"  said  I,  "  neither  do  I  un- 
derstand." 

"  Nor  that  big  Keredec  either ! "  Whereupon  he 
loosed  the  rolling  thunder  of  his  laughter.  "  Nor 
any  brain  born  of  the  monkey  people!  But  this 
world  is  full  of  proof  that  everything  that  exist  is 
all  one  thing,  and  it  is  the  instinct  of  that,  when  it 
draws  us  together,  which  makes  what  we  call  *  love.' 
Even  those  wicked  devils  of  egoism  in  our  inside  is 
only  love  which  grows  too  long  the  wrong  way,  like 
the  finger  nails  of  the  Chinese  empress.  Young  love 
is  a  little  sprout  of  universal  unity.  When  the 
young  people  begin  to  feel  it,  they  are  not  ab- 
stract, ha?  'And  the  young  man,  when  he  selects, 
he  chooses  one  being  from  all  the  others  to  mean 
— just  for  him — all  that  great  universe  of  which 
he  is  a  part." 

This  was  wandering  whimsically  far  afield,  but  as 

I  caught  the  good-humoured  flicker  of  the  professor's 

glance  at  our  companion  I  thought  I  saw  a  purpose 

in  his  deviation.  Saffren  turned  toward  him  wonder- 

[195] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

ingly,  his  unconscious,  eager  look  remarkably  em- 
phasised and  brightened. 

"  All  such  things  are  most  strange — great  mys- 
teries," continued  the  professor.  "  For  when  a  man 
has  made  the  selection,  that  being  does  become  all 
the  universe,  and  for  him  there  is  nothing  else  at 
all — nothing  else  anywhere !  " 

Saffren's  cheeks  and  temples  were  flushed  as  they 
had  been  when  I  saw  him  returning  that  afternoon ; 
and  his  eyes  were  wide,  fixed  upon  Keredec  in  a 
stare  of  utter  amazement. 

"  Yes,  that  is  true,"  he  said  slowly.  "  How  did 
you  know?  " 

Keredec  returned  his  look  with  an  attentive  scru- 
tiny, and  made  some  exclamation  under  his  breath, 
which  I  did  not  catch,  but  there  was  no  mistaking 
his  high  good  humour. 

"  Bravo !  "  he  shouted,  rising  and  clapping  the 
other  upon  the  shoulder.  "  You  will  soon  cure  my 
rheumatism  if  you  ask  me  questions  like  that!  Ho, 
ho,  ho ! "  He  threw  back  his  head  and  let  the  mighty 
salvos  forth.  "  Ho,  ho,  ho !  How  do  I  know  ?  The 
young,  always  they  believe  they  are  the  only  ones 
who  were  ever  young!  Ho,  ho,  ho!  Come,  we  shall 
[196] 


Chapter  Fourteen 

make  those  lessons  very  easy  to-night.  Come,  my 
friend!  How  could  that  big,  old  Keredec  know 
of  such  things?  He  is  too  old,  too  foolish!  Ho, 
ho,  ho ! " 

As  he  went  up  the  steps,  the  courtyard  re- 
verberating again  to  his  laughter,  his  arm  resting 
on  Saffren's  shoulders,  but  not  so  heavily  as  usual. 
The  door  of  their  salon  closed  upon  them,  and  for 
a  while  Keredec's  voice  could  be  heard  booming 
cheerfully ;  it  ended  in  another  burst  of  laughter. 

A  moment  later  Saffren  opened  the  door  and 
called  to  me. 

"  Here,"  I  answered  from  my  veranda,  where  I 
had  just  lighted  my  second  cigar. 

"  No  more  work  to-night.  All  finished,"  he  cried 
jubilantly,  springing  down  the  steps.  "  I'm  coming 
to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

Amedee  had  removed  the  candles,  the  moon  had 
withdrawn  in  fear  of  a  turbulent  mob  of  clouds, 
rioting  into  our  sky  from  seaward;  the  air  smelled 
of  imminent  rain,  and  it  was  so  dark  that  I  could 
see  my  visitor  only  as  a  vague,  tall  shape;  but  a 
happy  excitement  vibrated  in  his  rich  voice,  and  his 
step  on  the  gravelled  path  was  light  and  exultant. 
[197] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  I  won't  sit  down,"  he  said.  "  I'll  walk  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  veranda — if  it  doesn't  make 
you  nervous." 

For  answer  I  merely  laughed ;  and  he  laughed 
too,  in  genial  response,  continuing  gaily: 

"  Oh,  it's  all  so  different  with  me !  Everything  is. 
That  blind  feeling  I  told  you  of — it's  all  gone.  I 
must  have  been  very  babyish,  the  other  day ;  I  don't 
think  I  could  feel  like  that  again.  It  used  to  seem 
to  me  that  I  lived  penned  up  in  a  circle  of  blank 
stone  walls;  I  couldn't  see  over  the  top  for  myself 
at  all,  though  now  and  then  Keredec  would  boost 
me  up  and  let  me  get  a  little  glimmer  of  the  country 
round  about — but  never  long  enough  to  see  what  it 
was  really  like.  But  it's  not  so  now.  Ah !  " — he  drew 
a  long  breath — "  I'd  like  to  run.  I  think  I  could 
run  all  the  way  to  the  top  of  a  pretty  fair-sized 
mountain  to-night,  and  then  " — he  laughed — "  jump 
off  and  ride  on  the  clouds." 

"  I  know  how  that  is,"  I  responded.  "  At  least 
I  did  know — a  few  years  ago." 

"  Everything  is  a  jumble  with  me,"  he  went  on 
happily,  in  a  confidential  tone,  "  yet  it's  a  heavenly 
kind  of  jumble.  I  can't  put  anything  into  words. 
[198] 


Chapter  Fourteen 

I  don't  think  very  well  yet,  though  Keredec  is  trying 
to  teach  me.  My  thoughts  don't  run  in  order,  and 
this  that's  happened  seems  to  make  them  wilder, 
queerer —  '  He  stopped  short. 

"  What  has  happened?  " 

He  paused  in  his  sentry-go,  facing  me,  and  an- 
swered, in  a  low  voice: 

"  I've  seen  her  again." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"  She  told  me  you  knew  it,"  he  said,  " — that  she 
had  told  you." 

"  Yes." 

"  But  that's  not  all,"  he  said,  his  voice  rising  a 
little.  "  I  saw  her  again  the  day  after  she  told 
you— 

"  You  did !  "  I  murmured. 

"  Oh,  I  tell  myself  that  it's  a  dream,"  he  cried, 
"  that  it  can't  be  true.  For  it  has  been  every  day 
since  then !  That's  why  I  haven't  j  oined  you  in  the 
woods.  I  have  been  with  her,  walking  with  her,  lis- 
tening to  her,  looking  at  her — always  feeling  that 
it  must  be  unreal  and  that  I  must  try  not  to  wake 
up.  She  has  been  so  kind — so  wonderfully,  beauti- 
fully kind  to  me !  " . 

[199] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  She  has  met  you?  "  I  asked,  thinking  ruefully 
of  George  Ward,  now  on  the  high  seas  in  the  pleas- 
ant company  of  old  hopes  renewed. 

"  She  has  let  me  meet  her.  And  to-day  we  lunched 
at  the  inn  at  Dives  and  then  walked  by  the  sea  all 
afternoon.  She  gave  me  the  whole  day — the  whole 
day !  You  see  " — he  began  to  pace  again — "  you  see 
I  was  right,  and  you  were  wrong.  She  wasn't  of- 
fended— she  was  glad — that  I  couldn't  help  speak- 
ing to  her ;  she  has  said  so." 

"  Do  you  think,"  I  interrupted,  "  that  she  would 
wish  you  to  tell  me  this  ?  " 

"  Ah,  she  likes  you !  "  he  said  so  heartily,  and  ap- 
pearing meanwhile  so  satisfied  with  the  completeness 
of  his  reply,  that  I  was  fain  to  take  some  satisfaction 
in  it  myself.  "  What  I  wanted  most  to  say  to  you," 
he  went  on,  "  is  this :  you  remember  you  promised 
to  tell  me  whatever  you  could  learn  about  her — and 
about  her  husband  ?  " 

"  I  remember." 

"  It's  different  now.  I  don't  want  you  to,"  he  said. 

"  I  want  only  to  know  what   she   tells   me   herself. 

She  has  told  me  very  little,  but  I  know  when  the  time 

comes  she  will  tell  me  everything.  But  I  wouldn't 

[200] 


Chapter  Fourteen 

hasten  it.  I  wouldn't  have  anything  changed  from 
just  this!  " 

"  You  mean " 

"  I  mean  the  way  it  is.  If  I  could  hope  to  see  her 
every  day,  to  be  in  the  woods  with  her,  or  down  by  the 
shore — oh,  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  but  that !  " 

"  No  doubt  you  have  told  her,"  I  ventured,  "  a 
good  deal  about  yourself,"  and  was  instantly 
ashamed  of  myself.  I  suppose  I  spoke  out  of  a  sense 
of  protest  against  Mrs.  Harman's  strange  lack  of 
conventionality,  against  so  charming  a  lady's  losing 
her  head  as  completely  as  she  seemed  to  have  lost 
hers,  and  it  may  have  been,  too,  out  of  a  feeling  of 
jealousy  for  poor  George — possibly  even  out  of  a 
little  feeling  of  the  same  sort  on  my  own  account. 
But  I  couldn't  have  said  it  except  for  the  darkness, 
and,  as  I  say,  I  was  instantly  ashamed. 

It  does  not  whiten  my  guilt  that  the  shaft  did  not 
reach  him. 

"  I've  told  her  all  I  know,"  he  said  readily,  and 
the  unconscious  pathos  of  the  answer  smote  me. 
"  And  all  that  Keredec  has  let  me  know.  You  see 
I  haven't " 

"  But  do  you  think,"  I  interrupted  quickly,  anx- 
[201] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

ious,  in  my  remorse,  to  divert  him  from  that  channel, 
"  do  you  think  Professor  Keredec  would  approve,  if 
he  knew?  " 

"  I  think  he  would,"  he  responded  slowly,  pausing 
in  his  walk  again.  "  I  have  a  feeling  that  perhaps 
he  does  know,  and  yet  I  have  been  afraid  to  tell  him, 
afraid  he  might  try  to  stop  me — keep  me  from 
going  to  wait  for  her.  But  he  has  a  strange  way 
of  knowing  things ;  I  think  he  knows  everything  in 
the  world!  I  have  felt  to-night  that  he  knows  this, 
and-  -it's  very  strange,  but  I — well,  what  was  it  that 
made  him  so  glad  ?  " 

"  The  light  is  still  burning  in  his  room,"  I  said 
quietly. 

"  You  mean  that  I  ought  to  tell  him?  "  His  voice 
rose  a  little. 

"  He's  done  a  good  deal  for  you,  hasn't  he  ?  "  I 
suggested.  "  And  even  if  he  does  know  he  might  like 
to  hear  it  from  you." 

"  You're  right ;  I'll  tell  him  to-night."  This  came 
with  sudden  decision,  but  with  less  than  marked  what 
followed.  "  But  he  can't  stop  me,  now.  No  one  on 
earth  shall  do  that,  except  Madame  d'Armand  her- 
self. No  one!" 


Chapter  Fourteen 

11 1  won't  quarrel  with  that,"  I  said  drily,  throw- 
ing away  my  cigar,  which  had  gone  out  long  before. 

He  hesitated,  and  then  I  saw  his  hand  groping 
toward  me  in  the  darkness,  and,  rising,  I  gave  him 
mine. 

"  Good  night,"  he  said,  and  shook  my  hand  as  the 
first  sputterings  of  the  coming  rain  began  to  patter 
on  the  roof  of  the  pavilion.  "  I'm  glad  to  tell  him ; 
I'm  glad  to  have  told  you.  Ah,  but  isn't  this,"  he 
cried,  "  a  happy  world !  " 

Turning,  he  ran  to  the  gallery  steps.  "  At  last 
I'm  glad,"  he  called  back  over  his  shoulder,  "  I'm 
glad  that  I  was  born " 

A  gust  of  wind  blew  furiously  into  the  courtyard 
at  that  instant,  and  I  heard  his  voice  indistinctly, 
but  I  thought — though  I  might  have  been  mistaken 
— that  I  caught  a  final  word,  and  that  it  was 
"  again." 


[203] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

THE  rain  of  two  nights  and  two  days  had 
freshened  the  woods,  deepening  the  green 
of  the  tree-trunks  and  washing  the  dust 
from  the  leaves,  and  now,  under  the  splendid  sun  of 
the  third  morning,  we  sat  painting  in  a  sylvan  aisle 
that  was  like  a  hall  of  Aladdin's  palace,  the  filigreed 
arches  of  foliage  above  us  glittering  with  pendulous 
rain-drops.  But  Arabian  Nights'  palaces  are  not  to 
my  fancy  for  painting;  the  air,  rinsed  of  its  colour, 
was  too  sparklingly  clean ;  the  interstices  of  sky  and 
the  roughly  framed  distances  I  prized,  were  brought 
too  close.  It  was  one  of  those  days  when  Nature 
throws  herself  straight  in  your  face  and  you  are 
at  a  loss  to  know  whether  she  has  kissed  you  or 
slapped  you,  though  you  are  conscious  of  the  tingle ; 
— a  day,  in  brief,  more  for  laugliing  than  for  paint- 
ing, and  the  truth  is  that  I  suited  its  mood  only  too 
well,  and  laughed  more  than  I  painted,  though  I  sat 
with  my  easel  before  me  and  a  picture  ready  upon 
my  palette  to  be  painted. 


Chapter  Fifteen 

No  one  could  have  understood  better  than  I  that 
this  was  setting  a  bad  example  to  the  acolyte  who 
sat,  likewise  facing  an  easel,  ten  paces  to  my  left;  a 
very  sportsmanlike  figure  of  a  painter  indeed,  in  her 
short  skirt  and  long  coat  of  woodland  brown,  the 
fine  brown  of  dead  oak-leaves ;  a  "  devastating  "  se- 
lection of  colour  that! — being  much  the  same  shade 
as  her  hair — with  brown  for  her  hat  too,  and  the 
veil  encircling  the  small  crown  thereof,  and  brown 
again  for  the  stout,  high,  laced  boots  which  pro- 
tected her  from  the  wet  tangle  underfoot.  Who  could 
have  expected  so  dashing  a  young  person  as  this  to 
do  any  real  work  at  painting?  Yet  she  did,  narrow- 
ing her  eyes  to  the  finest  point  of  concentration,  and 
applying  herself  to  the  task  in  hand  with  a  persistence 
which  I  found,  on  that  particular  morning,  far  be- 
yond my  own  powers. 

As  she  leaned  back  critically,  at  the  imminent  risk 
of  capsizing  her  camp-stool,  and  herself  with  it,  in 
her  absorption,  some  ill-suppressed  token  of  amuse- 
ment must  have  caught  her  ear,  for  she  turned  upon 
me  with  suspicion,  and  was  instantly  moved  to  moral- 
ise upon  the  reluctance  I  had  shown  to  accept  her 
as  a  companion  for  my  excursions ;  taking  as  her 
[205] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

theme,  in  contrast,  her  own  present  display  of  am- 
bition ;  all  in  all  a  warm,  if  overcoloured,  sketch  of 
the  idle  master  and  the  industrious  apprentice.  It 
made  me  laugh  again,  upon  which  she  changed  the 
subject. 

"  An  indefinable  sometliing  tells  me,"  she  announced 
coldly,  "  that  henceforth  you  needn't  be  so  drastically 
fearful  of  being  dragged  to  the  chateau  for  dinner, 
nor  dejeuner  either !  " 

"  Did  anything  ever  tell  you  that  I  had  cause  to 
fear  it?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  but  too  simply.  "  Jean  Ferret." 

"  Anglicise  that  ruffian's  name,"  I  muttered,  mirth 
immediately  withering  upon  me,  "  and  you'll  know 
him  better.  To  save  time:  will  you  mention  anything 
you  can  think  of  that  he  hasn't  told  you?  " 

Miss  Elliott  cocked  her  head  upon  one  side  to 
examine  the  work  of  art  she  was  producing,  while 
a  slight  smile,  playing  about  her  lips,  seemed  to 
indicate  that  she  was  appeased.  "  You  and  Miss 
Ward  are  old  and  dear  friends,  aren't  you?  "  she 
asked  absently. 

"  We  are !  "  I  answered  between  my  teeth.  "  For 

years  I  have  sent  her  costly  jewels " 

[206] 


Chapter  Fifteen 

She  interrupted  me  by  breaking  outright  into  a 
peal  of  laughter,  which  rang  with  such  childish  de- 
light that  I  retorted  by  offering  several  malevolent 
observations  upon  the  babbling  of  French  servants 
and  the  order  of  mind  attributable  to  those  who  lis- 
tened to  them.  Her  defence  was  to  affect  inattention 
and  paint  busily  until  some  time  after  I  had  con- 
cluded. 

"  I  think  she's  going  to  take  Cressie  Ingle,"  she 
said  dreamily,  with  the  air  of  one  whose  thoughts 
have  been  far,  far  away.  "  It  looks  preponderously 
like  it.  She's  been  teetertottering  these  ages  and  ages 
between  you " 

"  Between  whom?  " 

"  You  and  Mr.  Ingle,"  she  replied,  not  altering 
her  tone  in  the  slightest.  "  But  she's  all  for  her 
brother,  of  course,  and  though  you're  his  friend, 
Ingle  is  a  personage  in  the  world  they  court,  and 
among  the  multitudinous  things  his  father  left  him 
is  an  art  magazine,  or  one  that's  long  on  art  or 
something  of  that  sort — I  don't  know  just  what — 
so  altogether  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  dearest  Mr. 
Ward.  She  likes  Cressie,  of  course,  though  I  thinlc 

she  likes  you  better " 

[207] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

I  managed  to  find  my  voice  and  interrupt  the 
thistle-brained  creature.  "  What  put  these  fantasias 
into  your  head  ?  " 

"  Not  Jean  Ferret,"  she  responded  promptly. 
"  It's  cruel  of  me  to  break  it  to  you  so  coarsely — 
I  know — but  if  you  are  ever  going  to  make  up 
your  mind  to  her  building  as  glaring  a  success 
of  you  as  she  has  of  her  brother,  I  think  you 
must  do  it  now.  She's  on  the  point  of  accepting 
Mr.  Ingle,  and  what  becomes  of  you  will  depend 
on  your  conduct  in  the  most  immediate  future. 
She  won't  ask  you  to  Quesnay  again,  so  you'd 
better  go  up  there  on  your  own  accord. — And 
on  your  bended  knees,  too !  "  she  added  as  an  after- 
thought. 

I  sought  for  something  to  say  which  might  have 
a  chance  of  impressing  her — a  desperate  task  on  the 
face  of  it — and  I  mentioned  that  Miss  Ward  was 
her  hostess. 

One  might  as  well  have  tried  to  impress  Amedee. 
She  "  made  a  little  mouth  "  and  went  on  dabbling 
with  her  brushes.  "  Hostess  ?  Pooh !  "  she  said  cheer- 
fully. "  My  infantile  father  sent  me  here  to  be  in 
her  charge  while  he  ran  home  to  America.  Mr. 
[208] 


Chapter  Fifteen 

Ward's  to  paint  my  portrait,  when  he  comes.  Give 
and  take — it's  simple  enough,  you  see !  " 

Here  was  frankness  with  a  vengeance,  and  I  fell 
back  upon  silence,  whereupon  a  pause  ensued,  to  my 
share  of  which  I  imparted  the  deepest  shadow  of 
disapproval  within  my  power.  Unfortunately,  she 
did  not  look  at  me ;  my  effort  passed  with  no 
other  effect  than  to  make  some  of  my  facial  mus- 
cles ache. 

"  '  Portrait  of  Miss  E.,  by  George  Ward,  H.C.,'  " 
this  painfully  plain-speaking  young  lady  continued 
presently.  "  On  the  line  at  next  spring's  Salon,  then 
packed  up  for  the  dear  ones  at  home.  I'd  as  soon 
own  an  '  Art  Bronze,'  myself — or  a  nice,  clean  porce- 
lain Arab." 

"  No  doubt  you've  forgotten  for  the  moment," 
I  said,  "  that  Mr.  Ward  is  my  friend." 

"  Not  in  painting,  he  isn't,"  she  returned  quickly. 

"  I  consider  his  work  altogether  creditable ;  it's 
carefully  done,  conscientious,  effective " 

"  Isn't  that  true  of  the  ladies   in  the  hairdress- 
ers' windows  ?  "  she  asked  with  assumed  artlessness. 
"  Can't  you  say  a  kind  word  for  them,  good  gen- 
tleman, and  heaven  bless  you  ?  " 
[209] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Why   sha'n't  I   be   asked   to   Quesnay   again  ? " 

She  laughed.  "  You  haven't  seemed  fanatically 
appreciative  of  your  opportunities  when  you  have 
been  there;  you  might  have  carried  her  off  from 
Cresson  Ingle  instead  of  vice  versa.  But  after 
all,  you  aren't  " — here  she  paused  and  looked  at 
me  appraisingly  for  a  moment — "  you  aren't  the 
most  piratical  dash-in-and-dash-out  and  leave-every- 
thing-upside-down-behind-you  sort  of  manr  are 
you?  " 

"  No,  I  believe  I'm  not." 

"  However,  that's  only  a  small  half  of  the  reason," 
Miss  Elliott  went  on.  "  She's  furious  on  account  of 
this." 

These  were  vague  words,  and  I  said  so. 

"  Oh,  this,"  she  explained,  "  my  being  here ;  your 
letting  me  come.  Impropriety — all  of  that !  "  A  sharp 
whistle  issued  from  her  lips.  "  Oh !  the  excoriating 
things  she's  said  of  my  pursuing  you ! " 

"  But  doesn't  she  know  that  it's  only  part  of  your 
siege  of  Madame  Brossard's ;  that  it's  a  subterfuge 
in  the  hope  of  catching  a  glimpse  of  Oliver  Saf- 
fren?" 

"  No ! "  she  cried,  her  eyes  dancing ;  "  I  told 
[210] 


Chapter  Fifteen 

her  that,  but  she  thinks  it's  only  a  subterfuge 
in  the  hope  of  catching  more  than  a  glimpse  of 
you!" 

I  joined  laughter  with  her  then.  She  was  the  first 
to  stop,  and,  looking  at  me  somewhat  doubtfully, 
she  said : 

"  Whereas,  the  truth  is  that  it's  neither.  You  know 
very  well  that  I  want  to  paint." 

"  Certainly,"  I  agreed  at  once.  "  Your  devotion 
to  *  your  art  '  and  your  hope  of  spending  half  an 
hour  at  Madame  Brossard's  now  and  then  are  separ- 
able;— which  reminds  me:  Wouldn't  you  like  me  to 
look  at  your  sketch?  " 

"  No,  not  yet."  She  jumped  up  and  brought  her 
camp-stool  over  to  mine.  "  I  feel  that  I  could  better 
bear  what  you'll  say  of  it  after  I've  had  some  lunch. 
Not  a  syllable  of  food  has  crossed  my  lips  since 
coffee  at  dawn !  " 

I  spread  before  her  what  Amedee  had  prepared; 
not  sandwiches  for  the  pocket  to-day,  but  a  wicker 
hamper,  one  end  of  which  we  let  rest  upon  her  knees, 
the  other  upon  mine,  and  at  sight  of  the  foie  gras, 
the  delicate,  devilled  partridge,  the  truffled  salad,  the 
fine  yellow  cheese,  and  the  long  bottle  of  good  red 
[211] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

Beaune,  revealed  when  the  cover  was  off,  I  could 
almost  have  forgiven  the  qld  rascal  for  his  scandal- 
mongering.  As  for  my  vis-a-vis,  she  pronounced  it 
a  "  maddening  sight." 

"  Fall  to,  my  merry  man,"  she  added,  "  and  eat 
your  fill  of  this  fair  pasty,  under  the  greenwood 
tree."  Obeying  her  instructions  with  right  good-will, 
and  the  lady  likewise  evincing  no  hatred  of  the 
viands,  we  made  a  cheerful  meal  of  it,  topping  it 
with  peaches  and  bunches  of  grapes. 

"  It  is  unfair  to  let  you  do  all  the  catering," 
said  Miss  Elliott,  after  carefully  selecting  the  largest 
and  best  peach. 

"  Jean  Ferret's  friend  does  that,"  I  returned, 
watching  her  rather  intently  as  she  dexterously  peeled 
the  peach.  She  did  it  very  daintily,  I  had  to  admit 
that — though  I  regretted  to  observe  indications  of 
the  gourmet  in  one  so  young.  But  when  it  was  peeled 
clean,  she  set  it  on  a  fresh  green  leaf,  and,  to  my 
surprise,  gave  it  to  me. 

"  You  see,"  she  continued,  not  observing  my  re- 
morseful confusion,  "  I  couldn't  destroy  Elizabeth's 
peace  of  mind  and  then  raid  her  larder  to  boot. 
That  poor  lady!  I  make  her  trouble  enough,  but 
[212] 


Chapter  Fifteen 

it's  nothing  to  what  she's  going  to  have  when  she 
finds  out  some  things  that  she  must  find  out." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  About  Mrs.  Harman,"  was  the  serious  reply. 
"  Elizabeth  hasn't  a  clue." 

"  '  Clue  '  ?  "  I  echoed. 

"  To  Louise's  strange  affair."  Miss  Elliott's  ex- 
pression had  grown  as  serious  as  her  tone.  "  It  is 
strange;  the  strangest  thing  I  ever  knew." 

"  But  there's  your  own  case,"  I  urged.  "  Why 
should  you  think  it  strange  of  her  to  take  an  interest 
in  Saffren?" 

"  I  adore  him,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  He  is  the 
most  glorious-looking  person  I've  ever  seen,  but  on 
my  word — "  She  paused,  and  as  her  gaze  met  mine  I 
saw  real  earnestness  in  her  eyes.  "  I'm  afraid — I 
was  half  joking  the  other  day — but  now  I'm  really 
afraid  Louise  is  beginning  to  be  in  love  with  him." 

"  Oh,  mightn't  it  be  only  interest,  so  far  ? "  I 
said. 

"  No,  it's  much  more.  And  I've  grown  so  fond  of 
her ! "  the  girl  went  on,  her  voice  unexpectedly  verg- 
ing upon  tremulousness.  "  She's  quite  wonderful  in 
her  way — such  an  understanding  sort  of  woman,  and 
[213] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

generous  and  kind;  there  are  so  many  things  turn- 
ing up  in  a  party  like  ours  at  Quesnay  that  show 
what  people  are  really  made  of,  and  she's  a  rare, 
fine  spirit.  It  seems  a  pity,  with  such  a  miserable 
first  experience  as  she  had,  that  this  should  happen. 
Oh,  I  know,"  she  continued  rapidly,  cutting  off  a 
half-formed  protest  of  mine.  "  He  isn't  mad — and 
I'm  sorry  I  tried  to  be  amusing  about  it  the  night 
you  dined  at  the  chateau.  I  know  perfectly  well  he's 
not  insane;  but  I'm  absolutely  sure,  from  one  thing 
and  another,  that — well — he  isn't  all  there!  He's  as 
beautiful  as  a  seraph  and  probably  as  good  as  one, 
but  something  is  missing  about  him — and  it  begins 
to  look  like  a  second  tragedy  for  her." 

"  You  mean,  she  really — "  I  began. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  she  returned,  with  a  catch  in  her 
throat.  "  She  comes  to  my  room  when  the  others 
are  asleep.  Not  that  she  tells  me  a  great  deal,  but 
it's  in  the  air,  somehow;  she  told  me  with  such  a 
strained  sort  of  gaiety  of  their  meeting  and  his  first 
joining  her;  and  there  was  something  underneath 
as  if  she  thought  7  might  be  really  serious  in  my 
ravings  about  him,  and — yes,  as  if  she  meant  to 
warn  me  off.  And  the  other  night,  when  I  saw  her 
[214] 


Chapter  Fifteen 

after  their  lunching  together  at  Dives,  I  asked  her 
teasingly  if  she'd  had  a  happy  day,  and  she  laughed 
the  prettiest  laugh  I  ever  heard  and  put  her  arms 
around  me — then  suddenly  broke  out  crying  and 
ran  out  of  the  room." 

"  But  that  may  have  been  no  more  than  over- 
strained nerves,"  I  feebly  suggested. 

"  Of  course  it  was !  "  she  cried,  regarding  me  with 
justifiable  astonishment.  "  It's  the  cause  of  their  be- 
ing overstrained  that  interests  me !  It's  all  so  strange 
and  distressing,"  she  continued  more  gently,  "  that 
I  wish  I  weren't  there  to  see  it.  And  there's  poor 
George  Ward  coming — ah!  and  when  Elizabeth 
learns  of  it !  " 

"  Mrs.  Harman  had  her  way  once,  in  spite  of 
everything,"  I  said  thoughtfully. 

"  Yes,  she  was  a  headstrong  girl  of  nineteen,  then. 
But  let's  not  think  it  could  go  as  far  as  that! 
There !  "  She  threw  a  peach-stone  over  her  shoulder 
and  sprang  up  gaily.  "  Let's  not  talk  of  it ;  I  think 
of  it  enough !  It's  time  for  you  to  give  me  a  racking 
criticism  on  my  morning's  work." 

Taking  off  her  coat  as  she  spoke,  she  unbuttoned 
the  cuffs  of  her  manly  blouse  and  rolled  up  her 
[215] 


The  Guest  of  Qucsnay 

sleeves  as  far  as  they  would  go,  preparations  which 
I  observed  with  some  perplexity. 

"  If  you  intend  any  violence,"  said  I,  "  in  case 
my  views  of  your  work  shouldn't  meet  your  own,  I 
think  I'll  be  leaving." 

"  Wait,"  she  responded,  and  kneeling  upon  one 
knee  beside  a  bush  near  by,  thrust  her  arms  elbow- 
deep  under  the  outer  mantle  of  leaves,  shaking  the 
stems  vigorously,  and  sending  down  a  shower  of 
sparkling  drops.  Never  lived  sane  man,  or  madman, 
since  time  began,  who,  seeing  her  then,  could  or 
would  have  denied  that  she  made  the  very  prettiest 
picture  ever  seen  by  any  person  or  persons  what- 
soever;— but  her  purpose  was  difficult  to  fathom. 
Pursuing  it,  I  remarked  that  it  was  improbable 
that  birds  would  be  nesting  so  low. 

"  It's  for  a  finger-bowl,"  she  said  briskly.  And 
rising,  this  most  practical  of  her  sex  dried  her  hands 
upon  a  fresh  serviette  from  the  hamper.  "  Last 
night's  rain  is  worth  two  birds  in  the  bush." 

With  that,  she  readjusted  her  sleeves,  lightly 
donned  her  coat,  and  preceded  me  to  her  easel. 
"  Now,"  she  commanded,  "  slaughter !  It's  what  I  let 
you  come  with  me  for." 

[216] 


Chapter  Fifteen 

I  looked  at  her  sketch  with  much  more  attention 
than  I  had  given  the  small  board  she  had  used  as 
a  bait  in  the  courtyard  of  Les  Trois  Pigeons.  To- 
day she  showed  a  larger  ambition,  and  a  larger  can- 
vas as  well — or,  perhaps  I  should  say  a  larger  bur- 
lap, for  she  had  chosen  to  paint  upon  something 
strongly  resembling  a  square  of  coffee-sacking.  But 
there  was  no  doubt  she  had  "  found  colour "  in  a 
swash-buckling,  bullying  style  of  forcing  it  to  be 
there,  whether  it  was  or  not,  and  to  "  vibrate," 
whether  it  did  or  not.  There  was  not  much  to  be 
said,  for  the  violent  kind  of  thing  she  had  done 
always  hushes  me;  and  even  when  it  is  well  done  I 
am  never  sure  whether  its  right  place  is  the  "  Salon 
des  Independants "  or  the  Luxembourg.  It  seems 
dreadful,  and  yet  sometimes  I  fear  in  secret  that  it 
may  be  a  real  transition,  or  even  an  awakening,  and 
that  the  men  I  began  with,  and  I,  are  standing  still. 
The  older  men  called  us  lunatics  once,  and  the  critics 
said  we  were  "  daring,"  but  that  was  long  ago. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

I  had  to  speak,  so  I  paraphrased  a  mot  of  Degas 
(I  think  it  was  Degas)  and  said: 

"  If  Rousseau  could  come  to  life  and  see  this 
[217] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

sketch  of  yours,  I  imagine  he  would  be  very  much 
interested,  but  if  he  saw  mine  he  might  say,  '  That 
is  my  fault ! '  " 

"  Oh!  "  she  cried,  her  colour  rising  quickly ;  she 
looked  troubled  for  a  second,  then  her  eyes  twinkled. 
"  You're  not  going  to  let  my  work  make  a  difference 
between  us,  are  you?  " 

"  I'll  even  try  to  look  at  it  from  your  own  point 
of  view,"  I  answered,  stepping  back  several  yards 
to  see  it  better,  though  I  should  have  had  to  retire 
about  a  quarter  of  the  length  of  a  city  block  to  see 
it  quite  from  her  own  point  of  view. 

She  moved  with  me,  both  of  us  walking  backward. 
I  began: 

"  For  a  day  like  this,  with  all  the  colour  in  the 
trees  themselves  and  so  very  little  in  the  air " 

There  came  an  interruption,  a  voice  of  unpleasant 
and  wiry  nasality,  speaking  from  behind  us. 

"  Well,  well!  "  it  said.  "  So  here  we  are  again ! " 

I  faced  about  and  beheld,  just  emerged  from  a 
by-path,  a  fox-faced  young  man  whose  light,  well- 
poised  figure  was  jauntily  clad  in  gray  serge,  with 
scarlet  waistcoat  and  tie,  white  shoes  upon  his  feet, 
and  a  white  hat,  gaily  beribboned,  upon  his  head.  A 
[218] 


Chapter  Fifteen 

recollection  of  the  dusky  road  and  a  group  of 
people  about  Pere  Baudry's  lamplit  door  flickered 
across  my  mind. 

"  The  historical  tourist ! "  I  exclaimed.  "  The 
highly  pedestrian  tripper  from  Trouville !  " 

"  You  got  me  right,  m'dear  friend,"  he  replied 
with  condescension ;  "  I  rec'leck  meetin'  you  per- 
fect." 

"  And  I  was  interested  to  learn,"  said  I,  carefully 
observing  the  effect  of  my  words  upon  him,  "  that 
you  had  been  to  Les  Trois  Pigeons  after  all.  Perhaps 
I  might  put  it,  you  had  been  through  Les  Trois 
Pigeons,  for  the  maitre  d'hotel  informed  me  you  had 
investigated  every  corner — that  wasn't  locked." 

"  Sure,"  he  returned,  with  rather  less  embarrass- 
ment than  a  brazen  Vishnu  would  have  exhibited 
under  the  same  circumstances.  "  He  showed  me  what 
pitchers  they  was  in  your  studio.  I'll  luk  'em  over 
again  fer  ye  one  of  these  days.  Some  of  'em  was 
right  gud." 

"  You  will  be  visiting  near  enough  for  me  to  avail 
myself  of  the  opportunity  ?  " 

"  Right  in  the  Pigeon  House,  m'friend.  I've  just 
come  down  t'putt  in  a  few  days  there,"  he  responded 
[219] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

coolly.  "  They's  a  young  feller  in  this  neighbour- 
hood I  take  a  kind  o'  fam'ly  interest  in." 

"Who  is  that?"  I  asked  quickly. 

For  answer  he  produced  the  effect  of  a  laugh 
by  widening  and  lifting  one  side  of  his  mouth,  leav- 
ing the  other,  meantime,  rigid. 

"  Don*  lemme  int'rup'  the  conv'sation  with  yer 
lady-friend,"  he  said  winningly.  "  What  they  call 
*  talkin'  High  Arts,'  wasn't  it  ?  I'd  like  to  hear 
some." 


[220] 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

MISS  ELLIOTT'S  expression,  when  I 
turned  to  observe  the  effect  of  the  in- 
truder upon  her,  was  found  to  be  one  of 
brilliant  delight.  With  glowing  eyes,  her  lips  parted 
in  a  breathless  ecstasy,  she  gazed  upon  the  new- 
comer, evidently  fearing  to  lose  a  syllable  that  fell 
from  his  lips.  Moving  closer  to  me  she  whispered 
urgently : 

"  Keep  him.  Oh,  keep  him !  " 

To  detain  him,  for  a  time  at  least,  was  my  inten- 
tion, though  my  motive  was  not  merely  to  afford 
her  pleasure.  The  advent  of  the  young  man  had 
produced  a  singularly  disagreeable  impression  upon 
me,  quite  apart  from  any  antagonism  I  might  have 
felt  toward  him  as  a  type.  Strange  suspicions  leaped 
into  my  mind,  formless — in  the  surprise  of  the  mo- 
ment— but  rapidly  groping  toward  definite  outline; 
and  following  hard  upon  them  crept  a  tingling  ap- 
prehension. The  reappearance  of  this  rattish  youth, 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

casual  as  was  the  air  with  which  he  strove  to  invest 
it,  began  to  assume,  for  me,  the  character  of  a 
theatrical  entrance  of  unpleasant  portent — a  sug- 
gestion just  now  enhanced  by  an  absurdly  obvious 
notion  of  his  own  that  he  was  enacting  a  part. 
This  was  written  all  over  him,  most  legibly  in  his 
attitude  of  the  knowing  amateur,  as  he  surveyed 
Miss  Elliott's  painting  patronisingly,  his  head  on 
one  side,  his  cane  in  the  crook  of  his  elbows  behind 
his  back,  and  his  body  teetering  genteelly  as  he 
shifted  his  weight  from  his  toes  to  his  heels  and 
back  again,  nodding  meanwhile  a  slight  but  judicial 
approbation. 

"  Now,  about  how  much,"  he  said  slowly,  "  would 
you  expec'  t'  git  f'r  a  pitcher  that  size?  " 

"  It  isn't  mine,"  I  informed  him. 

"You  don't  tell  me  it's  the  little  lady's— what?  " 
He  bowed  genially  and  favoured  Miss  Elliott  with  a 
stare  of  warm  admiration.  "  Pretty  a  thing  as  I 
ever  see,"  he  added. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried  with  an  ardour  that  choked  her 
slightly.  "  Thank  you !  " 

"  Oh,  I  meant  the  pitcher!  "  he  said  hastily,  evi- 
dently nonplussed  by  a  gratitude  so  fervent. 


Chapter  Sixteen 

The  incorrigible  damsel  cast  down  her  eyes  in 
modesty.  "  And  I  had  hoped,"  she  breathed,  "  some- 
thing so  different ! " 

I  could  not  be  certain  whether  or  not  he  caught 
the  whisper ;  I  thought  he  did.  At  all  events,  the  sur- 
face of  his  easy  assurance  appeared  somewhat  dis- 
arranged; and,  perhaps  to  restore  it  by  performing 
the  rites  of  etiquette,  he  said: 

"  Well,  I  expec'  the  smart  thing  now  is  to  pass 
the  cards,  but  mine's  in  my  grip  an'  it  ain't  un- 
packed yet.  The  name  you'd  see  on  'em  is  Oil  Poicy." 

"  Oil  Poicy,"  echoed  Miss  Elliott,  turning  to  me 
in  genuine  astonishment. 

"  Mr.  Earl  Percy,"  I  translated. 

"  Oh,  rapturous! "  she  cried,  her  face  radiant. 
"  And  won't  Mr.  Percy  give  us  his  opinion  of  my 
Art?" 

Mr.  Percy  was  in  doubt  how  to  take  her  enthusi- 
asm; he  seemed  on  the  point  of  turning  surly,  and 
hesitated,  while  a  sharp  vertical  line  appeared  on 
his  small  forehead;  but  he  evidently  concluded,  after 
a  deep  glance  at  her,  that  if  she  was  making  game  of 
him  it  was  in  no  ill-natured  spirit — nay,  I  think 
that  for  a  few  moments  he  suspected  her  liveliness  to 
[223] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

be  some  method  of  her  own  for  the  incipient  stages 
of  a  flirtation. 

Finally  he  turned  again  to  the  easel,  and  as  he 
examined  the  painting  thereon  at  closer  range, 
amazement  overspread  his  features.  However,  pull- 
ing himself  together,  he  found  himself  able  to  reply 
— and  with  great  gallantry: 

"Well,  on'y  t'  think  them  little  hands  cud  'a' 
done  all  that  rough  woik !  " 

The  unintended  viciousness  of  this  retort  produced 
an  effect  so  marked,  that,  except  for  my  growing 
uneasiness,  I  might  have  enjoyed  her  expression. 

As  it  was,  I  saved  her  face  by  entering  into  the 
conversation  with  a  question,  which  I  put  quickly: 

"  You  intend  pursuing  your  historical  researches 
in  the  neighbourhood  ?  " 

The  facial  contortion  which  served  him  for  a  laugh, 
and  at  the  same  time  as  a  symbol  of  unfathomable 
reserve,  was  repeated,  accompanied  by  a  jocose  mani- 
festation, in  the  nature  of  a  sharp  and  taunting 
cackle,  which  seemed  to  indicate  a  conviction  that 
he  was  getting  much  the  best  of  it  in  some  conflict 
of  wits. 

"  Them  fairy  tales  I  handed  you  about  ole  Jeanne 
[224] 


Chapter  Sixteen 

d'Arc  an'  William  the  Conker,"  he  said,  "  say,  they 
must  'a'  made  you  sore  afier-woids!  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  was  much  interested  in  every- 
thing pertaining  to  your  too  brief  visit,"  I  returned ; 
"  I  am  even  more  so  now." 

"  Well,  m'friend  " — he  shot  me  a  sidelong,  dis- 
trustful glance — "  keep  yer  eyes  open." 

"  That  is  just  the  point!  "  I  laughed,  with  inten- 
tional significance,  for  I  meant  to  make  Mr.  Percy 
talk  as  much  as  I  could.  To  this  end,  remembering 
that  specimens  of  his  kind  are  most  indiscreet  when 
carefully  enraged,  I  added,  simulating  his  own  man- 
ner: 

"  Eyes  open — and  doors  locked !  What  ?  " 

At  this  I  heard  a  gasp  of  astonishment  from  Miss 
Elliott,  who  must  have  been  puzzled  indeed;  but  I 
was  intent  upon  the  other.  He  proved  perfectly 
capable  of  being  insulted. 

"  I  guess  they  ain't  much  need  o'  lockin'  your 
door,"  he  retorted  darkly ;  "  not  from  what  I  saw 
when  I  was  in  your  studio !  "  He  should  have  stopped 
there,  for  the  hit  was  palpable  and  justified;  but  in 
his  resentment  he  overdid  it.  "  You  needn't  be  scared 
of  anybody's  cartin'  off  them  pitchers,  young  fel- 
[225] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

ler!  Whoosh!  An'  f'm  the  luks  of  the  clp'es  I  saw 
hangin'  on  the  wall,"  he  continued,  growing  more 
nettled  as  I  smiled  cheerfully  upon  him,  "  I  don' 
b'lieve  you  gut  any  worries  comin'  about  them, 
neither ! " 

"  I  suppose  our  tastes  are  different,"  I  said,  let- 
ting my  smile  broaden.  "  There  might  be  protection 
in  that." 

His  stare  at  me  was  protracted  to  an  unseemly 
length  before  the  sting  of  this  remark  reached  him; 
it  penetrated  finally,  however,  and  in  his  sharp 
change  of  posture  there  was  a  lightning  flicker  of 
the  experienced  boxer;  but  he  checked  the  impulse, 
and  took  up  the  task  of  obliterating  me  in  another 
way. 

"  As  I  tell  the  little  dame  here,"  he  said,  pitching 
his  voice  higher  and  affecting  the  plaintive,  "  I  make 
no  passes  at  a  friend  o'  hers — not  in  front  o'  her, 
anyways.  But  when  it  comes  to  these  here  ole,  an- 
cient curiosities  " — he  cackled  again,  loudly — "  well, 
I  guess  them  clo'es  I  see,  that  day,  kin  hand  it  out 
t'  anything  they  got  in  the  museums !  '  Look  here,' 
I  says  to  the  waiter,  '  these  must  be'n  left  over  f'm 
ole  Jeanne  d'Arc  herself,'  I  says.  *  Talk  about  yer 
[226] 


Chapter  Sixteen 

relics,'  I  says.  Whoosh !  I'  like  t'  died !  "  He  laughed 
violently,  and  concluded  by  turning  upon  me  with  a 
contemptuous  flourish  of  his  stick.  "  You  think  I 
d'know  what  makes  you  so  raw  ?  " 

The  form  of  repartee  necessary  to  augment  his 
ill  humour  was,  of  course,  a  matter  of  simple  mech- 
anism for  one  who  had  not  entirely  forgotten  his 
student  days  in  the  Quarter ;  and  I  delivered  it  air- 
ily, though  I  shivered  inwardly  that  Miss  Elliott 
should  hear. 

"  Everything  will  be  all  right  if,  when  you  dine 
at  the  inn,  you'll  sit  with  your  back  toward  me." 

To  my  shamed  surprise,  this  roustabout  wit  drew 
a  nervous,  silvery  giggle  from  her;  and  that  com- 
pleted the  work  with  Mr.  Percy,  whose  face  grew 
scarlet  with  anger. 

"  You're  a  hot  one,  you  are ! "  he  sneered,  with 
shocking  bitterness.  "  You're  quite  the  teaser,  ain't 
ye,  s'long's  yer  lady-friend  is  lukkin'  on!  I  guess 
they'll  be  a  few  surprises  comin'  your  way,  before 
long.  P'raps  I  cudn't  give  ye  one  now  'f  I  had  a 
mind  to." 

"  Pshaw,"  I  laughed,  and,  venturing  at  hazard, 
said,  "  I  know  all  you  know !  " 
[227] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Oh,  you  do !  "  he  cried  scornfully.  "  I  reckon 
you  might  set  up  an'  take  a  little  notice,  though, 
if  you  knowed  'at  I  know  all  you  know ! " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  " 

"  No  ?  Maybe  you  think  I  don't  know  what  makes 
you  so  raw  with  me?  Maybe  you  think  I  don't  know 
who  ye've  got  so  thick  with  at  this  here  Pigeon 
House;  maybe  you  think  I  don't  know  who  them 
people  are!  " 

"  No,  you  don't.  You  have  learned,"  I  said,  trying 
to  control  my  excitement,  "  nothing !  Whoever  hired 
you  for  a  spy  lost  the  money.  You  don't  know  any- 
thing!" 

"  I  don't! "  And  with  that  his  voice  went  to  a 
half-shriek.  "  Maybe  you  think  I'm  down  here  f'r 
my  health;  maybe  you  think  I  come  out  f'r  a  pleas- 
ant walk  in  the  woods  right  now;  maybe  you  think 
I  ain't  seen  no  other  lady-friend  o'  yours  besides 
this'n  to-day,  and  maybe  I  didn't  see  who  was  with 
her — yes,  an'  maybe  you  think  I  d'know  no  other 
times  he's  be'n  with  her.  Maybe  you  think  I  ain't  be'n 
layin'  low  over  at  Dives !  Maybe  I  don't  know  a  few 
real  names  in  this  neighbourhood!  Oh,  no,  maybe 
not!" 


Chapter  Sixteen 

"  You  know  what  the  maitre  d'hotel  told  you ; 
nothing  more." 

"  How  about  the  name — Oliver  Saffren?  "  he  cried 
fiercely,  and  at  that,  though  I  had  expected  it,  I 
uttered  an  involuntary  exclamation. 

"  How  about  it  ?  "  he  shouted,  advancing  toward 
me  triumphantly,  shaking  his  forefinger  in  my  face. 
"  Hey?  That  stings  some,  does  it?  Sounds  kind  o' 
like  a  false  name,  does  it?  Got  ye  where  the  hair  is 
short,  that  time,  didn't  I?  " 

"  Speaking  of  names,"  I  retorted,  "  *  Oil  Poicy ' 
doesn't  seem  to  ring  particularly  true  to  me ! " 

"  It'll  be  gud  enough  fer  you,  young  feller,"  he 
responded  angrily.  "  It  may  belong  t'  me,  an*  then 
again,  it  maybe  don't.  It  ain'  gunna  git  me  in  no 
trouble;  I'll  luk  out  f'r  that.  Your  side's  where  the 
trouble  is ;  that's  what's  eatin'  into  you.  An'  I'll  tell 
you  flat-foot,  your  gittin'  rough  'ith  me  and  playin' 
Charley  the  Show-Off  in  front  o'  yer  lady-friends'll 
all  go  down  in  the  bill.  These  people  ye've  got  so 
chummy  with — they'll  pay  f'r  it  all  right,  don't  you 
shed  no  tears  over  that !  " 

"  You  couldn't  by  any  possibility,"  I  said  deliber- 
ately, with  as  much  satire  as  I  could  command,  "  you 
[229] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

couldn't  possibly  mean  that  any  sum  of  mere  money 
might  be  a  salve  for  the  injuries  my  unkind  words 
have  inflicted  ?  " 

Once  more  he  seemed  upon  the  point  of  destroying 
me  physically,  but,  with  a  slight  shudder,  controlled 
himself.  Stepping  close  to  me,  he  thrust  his  head 
forward  and  measured  the  emphases  of  his  speech 
by  his  right  forefinger  upon  my  shoulder,  as  he  said: 

"  You  paint  tills  in  yer  pitchers,  m'dear  friend ; 
they's  jest  as  much  law  in  this  country  as  they  is 
on  the  corner  o'  Twenty-thoid  Street  an'  FiP  Av- 
enoo!  You  keep  out  the  way  of  it,  or  you'll  git 
runned  over ! " 

Delivering  a  final  tap  on  my  shoulder  as  a  last 
warning,  he  wheeled  deftly  upon  his  heel,  addressed 
Miss  Elliott  briefly,  "  Glad  t'  know  you,  lady,"  and 
striking  into  the  by-path  by  which  he  had  ap- 
proached us,  was  soon  lost  to  sight. 

The  girl  faced  me  excitedly.  "What  Is  it?"  she 
cried.  "  It  seemed  to  me  you  insulted  him  deliber- 
ately  " 

"I  did." 

"  You  wanted  to  make  him  angry  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

[230] 


Chapter  Sixteen 

"  Oh !  I  thought  so !  "  she  exclaimed  breathlessly. 
"  I  knew  there  was  something  serious  underneath. 
It's  about  Mr.  Saffren?" 

"  It  is  serious  indeed,  I  fear,"  I  said,  and  turning 
to  my  own  easel,  began  to  get  my  traps  together.  "  I'll 
tell  you  the  little  I  know,  because  I  want  you  to  tell 
Mrs.  Harman  what  has  just  happened,  and  you'll 
be  able  to  do  it  better  if  you  understand  what  Is 
understandable  about  the  rest  of  it." 

"  You  mean  you  wouldn't  tell  me  so  that  I  could 
understand  for  myself?  "  There  was  a  note  of  genu- 
ine grieved  reproach  in  her  voice.  "  Ah,  then  I've 
made  you  think  me  altogether  a  harebrain !  " 

"  I  haven't  time  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you," 
I  said  brusquely,  and,  strangely  enough,  it  seemed  to 
please  her.  But  I  paid  little  attention  to  that,  con- 
tinuing quickly :  "  When  Professor  Keredec  and  Mr. 
Saffren  came  to  Les  Trois  Pigeons,  they  were  so 
careful  to  keep  out  of  everybody's  sight  that  one 
might  have  suspected  that  they  were  in  hiding — and, 
in  fact,  I'm  sure  that  they  were — though,  as  time 
passed  and  nothing  alarming  happened,  they've  felt 
reassured  and  allowed  themselves  more  liberty.  It 
struck  me  that  Keredec  at  first  dreaded  that  they 
[231] 


The  Guest  of  Qucsnay 

might  be  traced  to  the  inn,  and  I'm  afraid  his  fear 
was  justified,  for  one  night,  before  I  came  to  kno-v 
them,  I  met  Mr.  *  Percy  '  on  the  road ;  he'd  visited 
Madame  Brossard's  and  pumped  Amedee  dry,  but 
clumsily  tried  to  pretend  to  me  that  he  had  not  been 
there  at  all.  At  the  time,  I  did  not  connect  him 
even  remotely  with  Professor  Keredec's  anxieties,  1 
imagined  he  might  have  an  eye  to  the  spoons;  but 
it's  as  ridiculous  to  think  him  a  burglar  as  it  would 
be  to  take  him  for  a  detective.  What  he  is,  or  what 
he  has  to  do  with  Mr.  Saffren,  I  can  guess  no  more 
than  I  can  guess  the  cause  of  Keredec's  fears,  but 
the  moment  I  saw  him  to-day,  saw  that  he'd  come 
back,  I  knew  it  was  that,  and  tried  to  draw  him  out. 
You  heard  what  he  said;  there's  no  doubt  that  Saf~ 
•Jren  stands  in  danger  of  some  kind.  It  may  be  in- 
Considerable,  or  even  absurd,  but  it's  evidently  im- 
minent, and  no  matter  what  it  is,  Mrs.  Harman  must 
be  kept  out  of  it.  I  want  you  to  see  her  as  soon  as 
you  can  and  ask  her  from  me — no,  persuade  her 
yourself — not  to  leave  Quesnay  for  a  day  or  two.  I 
mean,  that  she  absolutely  must  not  meet  Mr.  Saffren 
again  until  we  know  what  all  this  means.  Will  you 
do  it?" 


Chapter  Sixteen 

"  That  I  will ! "  And  she  began  hastily  to  get 
her  belongings  in  marching  order.  "  I'll  do  anything 
in  the  world  you'll  let  me — and  oh,  I  hope  they 
can't  do  anything  to  poor,  poor  Mr.  Saff ren !  " 

"  Our  sporting  friend  had  evidently  seen  him  with 
Mrs.  Harman  to-day,"  I  said.  "  Do  you  know  if 
they  went  to  the  beach  again  ?  " 

"  I  only  know  she  meant  to  meet  him — but  she 
told  me  she'd  be  back  at  the  chateau  by  four.  If  I 
start  now " 

"  Wasn't  the  phaeton  to  be  sent  to  the  inn  for 
you?" 

"  Not  until  six,"  she  returned  briskly,  folding  her 
easel  and  strapping  it  to  her  camp-stool  with  pre- 
cision. "  Isn't  it  shorter  by  the  woods  ?  " 

"  You've  only  to  follow  this  path  to  the  second 
crossing  and  then  turn  to  the  right,"  I  responded. 
"  I  shall  hurry  back  to  Madame  Brossard's  to  see 
Keredec — and  here  " — I  extended  my  hand  toward 
her  traps,  of  which,  in  a  neatly  practical  fashion, 
she  had  made  one  close  pack — "  let  me  have  your 
things  and  I'll  take  care  of  them  at  the  inn  for 
you.  They're  heavy,  and  it's  a  long  trudge." 

"  You  have  your  own  to  carry,"  she  answered, 
[233] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

swinging  the  strap  over  her  shoulder.  "  It's  some- 
thing of  a  walk  for  you,  too." 

"  No,  no,  let  me  have  them,"  I  protested,  for  the 
walk  before  her  was  long  and  the  things  would  be 
heavy  indeed  before  it  ended. 

"  Go  your  ways,"  she  laughed,  and  as  my  hand 
still  remained  extended  she  grasped  it  with  her  own 
and  gave  it  a  warm  and  friendly  shake.  "  Hurry ! " 
And  with  an  optimism  which  took  my  breath,  she 
said,  "  I  know  you  can  make  it  come  out  all  right ! 
Besides,  I'll  help  you ! " 

With  that  she  turned  and  started  manfully  upon 
her  journey.  I  stared  after  her  for  a  moment  or 
more,  watching  the  pretty  brown  dress  flashing  in 
and  out  of  shadow  among  the  ragged  greeneries, 
shafts  of  sunshine  now  and  then  flashing  upon  her 
hair.  Then  I  picked  up  my  own  pack  and  set  out  for 
the  inn. 

Every  one  knows  that  the  more  serious  and  urgent 
the  errand  a  man  may  be  upon,  the  more  incongru- 
ous are  apt  to  be  the  thoughts  that  skip  into  his 
mind.  As  I  went  through  the  woods  that  day,  breath- 
less with  haste  and  curious  fears,  my  brain  became 
[234] 


Chapter  Sixteen 

suddenly,  unaccountably  busy  with  a  dream  I  had 
had,  two  nights  before.  I  had  not  recalled  this  dream 
on  waking:  the  recollection  of  it  came  to  me  now 
for  the  first  time.  It  was  a  usual  enough  dream, 
wandering  and  unlifelike,  not  worth  the  telling;  and 
I  had  been  thinking  so  constantly  of  Mrs.  Harman 
that  there  was  nothing  extraordinary  in  her  worth- 
less ex-husband's  being  part  of  it. 

And  yet,  looking  back  upon  that  last,  hurried  walk 
of  mine  through  the  forest,  I  see  how  strange  it 
was  that  I  could  not  quit  remembering  how  in  my 
dream  I  had  gone  motoring  up  Mount  Pilatus  with 
the  man  I  had  seen  so  pitiably  demolished  on  the 
Versailles  road,  two  years  before — Larrabee  Har- 
man. 


[235] 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

K3REDEC  was  alone  in  his  salon,  extended 
at  ease  upon  a  long  chair,  an  ottoman  and 
a  stool,  when  I  burst  in  upon  him;  a  por- 
tentous volume  was  in  his  lap,  and  a  prolific  pipe, 
smoking  up  from  his  great  cloud  of  beard,  gave  the 
final  reality  to  the  likeness  he  thus  presented  of  a 
range  of  hills  ending  in  a  volcano.  But  he  rolled 
the  book  cavalierly  to  the  floor,  limbered  up  by  sec- 
tions to  receive  me,  and  offered  me  a  hearty  welcome. 

"  Ha,  my  dear  sir,"  he  cried,  "  you  take  pity  on 
the  lonely  Keredec;  you  make  him  a  visit.  I  could 
not  wish  better  for  myself.  We  shall  have  a  good 
smoke  and  a  good  talk." 

"  You  are  improved  to-day  ?  "  I  asked,  it  may  be 
a  little  slyly. 

"  Improve  ?  "  he  repeated  inquiringly. 

"  Your  rheumatism,  I  mean." 

"  Ha,  yes ;  that  rheumatism ! "  he  shouted,  and 
throwing  back  his  head,  rocked  the  room  with  sud- 
[236] 


Chapter  Seventeen 

den  laughter.  "  Hew !  But  it  is  gone — almost !  Oh,  I 
am  much  better,  and  soon  I  shall  be  able  to  go  in 
the  woods  again  with  my  boy."  He  pushed  a  chair 
toward  me.  "  Come,  light  your  cigar ;  he  will  not 
return  for  an  hour  perhaps,  and  there  is  plenty  of 
time  for  the  smoke  to  blow  away.  So !  It  is  better. 
Now  we  shall  talk." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  wanted  to  talk  with  you." 

"  That  is  a — what  you  call? — ha,  yes,  a  coinci- 
dence," he  returned,  stretching  himself  again  in  the 
long  chair,  "  a  happy  coincidence ;  for  I  have  wished 
a  talk  with  you;  but  you  are  away  so  early  for 
all  day,  and  in  the  evening  Oliver,  he  is  always 
here." 

"  I  think  what  I  wanted  to  talk  about  concerns 
him  particularly."  i 

"  Yes  ?  "  The  professor  leaned  forward,  looking 
at  me  gravely.  "  That  is  another  coincidence.  But 
you  shall  speak  first.  Commence  then." 

"  I  feel  that  you  know  me  at  least  well  enough," 
I  began  rather  hesitatingly,  "  to  be  sure  that  I  would 
not,  for  the  world,  make  any  effort  to  intrude  in 
your  affairs,  or  Mr.  Saffren's,  and  that  I  would  not 

force  your  confidence  in  the  remotest " 

[237] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  No,  no,  no !  "  he  interrupted.  "  Please  do  not  fear 
I  shall  misinterpretate  whatever  you  will  say.  You 
are  our  friend.  We  know  it." 

"  Very  well,"  I  pursued ;  "  then  I  speak  with  no 
fear  of  offending.  When  you  first  came  to  the  inn 
I  couldn't  help  seeing  that  you  took  a  great  many 
precautions  for  secrecy;  and  when  you  afterward 
explained  these  precautions  to  me  on  the  ground 
that  you  feared  somebody  might  think  Mr.  Saf- 
fren  not  quite  sane,  and  that  such  an  impression 
might  injure  him  later — well,  I  could  not  help  see- 
ing that  your  explanation  did  not  cover  all  the 
ground." 

"  It  is  true — it  did  not."  He  ran  his  huge  hand 
through  the  heavy  white  waves  of  his  hair,  and  shook 
his  head  vigorously.  "  No ;  I  knew  it,  my  dear  sir, 
I  knew  it  well.  But,  what  could  I  do?  I  would  not 
have  telled  my  own  mother!  This  much  I  can  say 
to  you:  we  came  here  at  a  risk,  but  I  thought  that 
with  great  care  it  might  be  made  little.  And  I 
thought  a  great,  good  thing  might  be  accomplish  if 
we  should  come  here,  something  so  fine,  so  wonderful, 
that  even  if  the  danger  had  been  great  I  would  have 
risked  it.  I  will  tell  you  a  little  more:  I  think  that 
[238] 


Chapter  Seventeen 

great  thing  is  being  accomplish ! "  Here  he  rose  to 
his  feet  excitedly  and  began  to  pace  the  room  as 
he  talked,  the  ancient  floor  shaking  with  his  tread. 
"  I  think  it  is  done!  And  ha !  my  dear  sir,  if  it 
should  be,  this  big  Keredec  will  not  have  lived  in 
vain !  It  was  a  great  task  I  undertake  with  my  young 
man,  and  the  glory  to  see  it  finish  is  almost  here. 
Even  if  the  danger  should  come,  the  thing  is  done, 
for  all  that  is  real  and  has  true  meaning  is  inside 
the  soul !  " 

"  It  was  in  connection  with  the  risk  you  have 
mentioned  that  I  came  to  talk,"  I  returned  with 
some  emphasis,  for  I  was  convinced  of  the  reality 
of  Mr.  Earl  Percy  and  also  very  certain  that  he 
had  no  existence  inside  or  outside  a  soul.  "  I  think  it 
necessary  that  you  should  know " 

But  the  professor  was  launched.  I  might  as  well 
have  swept  the  rising  tide  with  a  broom.  He  talked 
with  magnificent  vehemence  for  twenty  minutes,  his 
theme  being  some  theory  of  his  own  that  the  indi- 
viduality of  a  soul  is  immortal,  and  that  even  in 
perfection,  the  soul  cannot  possibly  merge  into  any 
Nirvana.  Meantime,  I  wondered  how  Mr.  Percy  was 
employing  his  time,  but  after  one  or  two  ineffectual 
[239] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

attempts  to  interrupt,  I  gave  myself  to  silence  until 
the  oration  should  be  concluded. 

"  And  so  it  is  with  my  boy,"  he  proclaimed,  com- 
ing at  last  to  the  case  in  hand.  "  The  spirit  of 
him,  the  real  Oliver  Saffren,  that  has  never  change! 
The  outside  of  him,  those  thing  that  belong  to  him, 
like  his  memory,  they  have  change,  but  not  himself, 
for  himself  is  eternal  and  unchangeable.  I  have 
taught  him,  yes;  I  have  helped  him  get  the  small 
things  we  can  add  to  our  possession — a  little  knowl- 
edge, maybe,  a  little  power  of  judgment.  But,  my 
dear  sir,  I  tell  you  that  such  things  are  only  posses- 
sions of  a  man.  They  are  not  the  man!  All  that  a 
man  ig  or  ever  shall  be,  he  is  when  he  is  a  baby. 
So  with  Oliver ;  he  had  lived  a  little  while,  twenty-six 
years,  perhaps,  when  pft — like  that ! — he  became 
almost  as  a  baby  again.  He  could  remember  how  to 
talk,  but  not  much  more.  He  had  lost  his  belongings 
— they  were  gone  from  the  lobe  of  the  brain  where  he 
had  store*  them ;  but  he  was  not  gone,  no  part  of  the 
real  himself  was  lacking.  Then  presently  they  send 
him  to  me  to  make  new  his  belongings,  to  restore 
his  possessions.  Ha,  what  a  task!  To  take  him  with 
nothing  in  the  world  of  his  own  and  see  that  he  get 


Chapter  Seventeen 

only  good  possessions,  good  knowledge,  good  experi- 
ence !  I  took  him  to  the  mountains  of  the  Tyrol — two 
years — and  there  his  body  became  strong  and  splendid 
while  his  brain  was  taking  in  the  stores.  It  was  quick, 
for  his  brain  had  retained  some  habits;  it  was  not 
a  baby's  brain,  and  some  small  part  of  its  old  stores 
had  not  been  lost.  But  if  anything  useless  or  bad 
remain,  we  empty  it  out — I  and  those  mountain' 
with  their  pure  air.  Now,  I  say  he  is  all  good  and 
the  work  was  good;  I  am  proud!  But  I  wish  to 
restore  all  that  was  good  in  his  life;  your  Keredec 
is  something  of  a  poet. — You  may  put  it:  much  the 
old  fool!  And  for  that  greates'  restoration  of  all 
I  have  brought  my  boy  back  to  France;  since  it 
was  necessary.  It  was  a  madness,  and  I  thank  the 
good  God  I  was  mad  enough  to  do  it.  I  cannot  tell 
you  yet,  my  dear  sir;  but  you  shall  see,  you  shall 
see  what  the  folly  of  that  old  Keredec  has  done! 
You  shall  see,  you  shall — and  I  promise  it — what 
a  Paradise,  when  the  good  God  helps,  an  old  fool's 
dream  can  make !  " 

A  half-light  had  broken  upon  me  as  he  talked,  pac- 
ing the  floor,  thundering  his  paean  of  triumph,  his 
Titanic  gestures  bruising  the  harmless  air.  Only  one 
[241] 


The  Giies  t  of  Quesnay 

explanation,  incredible,  but  possible,  sufficed.  Any- 
thing was  possible,  I  thought — anything  was  prob- 
able— with  this  dreamer  whom  the  trump  of  Fame, 
executing  a  whimsical  fantasia,  proclaimed  a  man  of 
science ! 

"  By  the  wildest  chance,"  I  gasped,  "  you  don't 
mean  that  you  wanted  him  to  fall  in  love " 

He  had  reached  the  other  end  of  the  room,  but  at 
this  he  whirled  about  on  me,  his  laughter  rolling 
out  again,  till  it  might  have  been  heard  at  Pere 
Baudry's. 

"  Ha,  my  dear  sir,  you  have  said  it !  But  you 
knew  it;  you  told  him  to  come  to  me  and  tell 
me." 

"  But  I  mean  that  you — unless  I  utterly  misunder- 
stand— you  seem  to  imply  that  you  had  selected 
some  one  now  in  France  whom  you  planned  that  he 
should  care  for — that  you  had  selected  the  lady  whom 
you  know  as  Madame  d'Armand." 

"  Again,"  he  shouted,  "  you  have  said  it !  " 

"  Professor  Keredec,"  I  returned,  with  asper- 
ity, "  I  have  no  idea  how  you  came  to  conceive 
such  a  preposterous  scheme,  but  I  agree  heartily 
that  the  word  for  it  is  madness.  In  the  first 


Chapter  Seventeen 

place,  I  must  tell  you  that  her  name  is  not  even 
d'Armand " 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  know.  It  was  the  mistake  of  that 
absurd  Amedee.  She  is  Mrs.  Harman." 

"  You  knew  it  ?  "  I  cried,  hopelessly  confused. 
"  But  Oliver  still  speaks  of  her  as  Madame  d'Ar- 
mand." 

"  He  does  not  know.  She  has  not  told  him." 

"  But  why  haven't  you  told  him  ?  " 

"  Ha,  that  is  a  story,  a  poem,"  he  cried,  beginning 
to  pace  the  floor  again — "  a  ballad  as  old  as  the 
oldest  of  Provence !  There  is  a  reason,  my  dear  sir, 
which  I  cannot  tell  you,  but  it  lies  within  the  ro- 
mance of  what  you  agree  is  my  madness.  Some  day, 
I  hope,  you  shall  understand  and  applaud!  In  the 
mean  time " 

"  In  the  mean  time,"  I  said  sharply,  as  he  paused 
for  breath,  "  there  is  a  keen-faced  young  man  who 
took  a  room  in  the  inn  this  morning  and  who  has 
come  to  spy  upon  you,  I  believe." 

"  What  is  it  you  say  ?  " 

He  came  to  a  sudden  stop. 

I  had  not  meant  to  deliver  my  information  quite  so 
abruptly,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it  now,  and  I 
[243] 


The  Guest  of  Qucsnay 

repeated  the  statement,  giving  him  a  terse  account 
of  my  two  encounters  with  the  rattish  youth,  and 
adding : 

"  He  seemed  to  be  certain  that  '  Oliver  Saff ren ' 
is  an  assumed  name,  and  he  made  a  threatening 
reference  to  the  laws  of  France." 

The  effect  upon  Keredec  was  a  very  distinct  pal- 
lor. He  faced  me  silently  until  I  had  finished,  then 
in  a  voice  grown  suddenly  husky,  asked: 

"  Do  you  think  he  came  back  to  the  inn  ?  Is  he 
here  now  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  We  must  learn ;  I  must  know  that,  at  once."  And 
he  went  to  the  door. 

"  Let  me  go  instead,"  I  suggested. 

"  It  can't  make  little  difference  if  he  see  me," 
said  the  professor,  swallowing  with  difficulty  and 
displaying,  as  he  turned  to  me,  a  look  of  such  pro- 
found anxiety  that  I  was  as  sorry  for  him  now  as 
I  had  been  irritated  a  few  minutes  earlier  by  his 
galliard  air-castles.  "  I  do  not  know  this  man,  nor 
does  he  know  me,  but  I  have  fear  " — his  beard  moved 
as  though  his  chin  were  trembling — "  I  have  fear 
that  I  know  his  employers.  Still,  it  may  be  better 
[244] 


Chapter  Seventeen 

if    you    go.    Bring    somebody    here    that    we    can 
ask." 

"Shall  I  find  Ame'dee?" 

"  No,  no,  no !  That  babbler  ?  Find  Madame  Bros- 
sard:" 

I  stepped  out  to  the  gallery,  to  discover  Madame 
Brossard  emerging  from  a  door  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  courtyard ;  Amedee,  Glouglou,  and  a  cou- 
ple of  carters  deploying  before  her  with  some  light 
trunks  and  bags,  which  they  were  carrying  into 
the  passage  she  had  just  quitted.  I  summoned  her 
quietly;  she  came  briskly  up  the  steps  and  into  the 
room,  and  I  closed  the  door. 

"  Madame  Brossard,"  said  the  professor,  "  you 
have  a  new  client  to-day." 

"  That  monsieur  who  arrived  this  morning,"  I 
suggested. 

"  He  was  an  American,"  said  the  hostess,  knitting 
her  dark  brows — "  but  I  do  not  think  that  he  was 
exactly  a  monsieur." 

"  Bravo !  "  I  murmured.  "  That  sketches  a  like- 
ness. It  is  this  '  Percy  '  without  doubt." 

"  That  is  it,"  she  returned.  "  Monsieur  Poissy 
is  the  name  he  gave." 

[245] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Is  he  at  the  inn  now  ?  " 

"  No,  monsieur,  but  two  friends  for  whom  he  en- 
gaged apartments  have  just  arrived." 

"  Who  are  they  ?  "  asked  Keredec  quickly. 

"  It  is  a  lady  and  a  monsieur  from  Paris.  But 
not  married:  they  have  taken  separate  apartments 
and  she  has  a  domestic  with  her,  a  negress,  Al- 
gerian." 

"  What  are  their  names  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  ten  minutes  that  they  are  installed. 
They  have  not  given  me  their  names." 

"  What  is  the  lady's  appearance  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  the  Professor,"  replied  the  hostess  de- 
murely, "  she  is  not  beautiful." 

"  But  what  is  she  ? "  demanded  Keredec  impa- 
tiently ;  and  it  could  be  seen  that  he  was  striving  to 
control  a  rising  agitation.  "Is  she  blonde?  Is  she 
brunette?  Is  she  young?  Is  she  old?  Is  she  French, 
English,  Spanish " 

"  I  think,"  said  Madame  Brossard,  "  I  think  one 
would  call  her  Spanish,  but  she  is  very  fat,  not 
young,  and  with  a  great  deal  too  much  rouge — 

She  stopped  with  an  audible  intake  of  breath, 
staring  at  my  friend's  white  face.  "  Eh !  it  is  bad 
[246] 


Chapter  Seventeen 

news  ? "  she  cried.  "  And  when  one  has  been  so 
ill " 

Keredec  checked  her  with  an  imperious  gesture. 
"  Monsieur  Saffren  and  I  leave  at  once,"  he  said. 
"  I  shall  meet  him  on  the  road ;  he  will  not  return 
to  the  inn.  We  go  to — to  Trouville.  See  that  no  one 
knows  that  we  have  gone  until  to-morrow,  if  possi- 
ble; I  shall  leave  fees  for  the  servants  with  you.  Go 
now,  prepare  your  bill,  and  bring  it  to  me  at  once. 
I  shall  write  you  where  to  send  our  trunks.  Quick! 
And  you,  my  friend  " — he  turned  to  me  as  Madame 
Brossard,  obviously  distressed  and  frightened,  but 
none  the  less  intelligent  for  that,  skurried  away  to 
do  his  bidding — "  my  friend,  will  you  help  us  ?  For 
we  need  it !  " 

"  Anything  in  the  world !  " 

"  Go  to  Pere  Baudry's ;  have  him  put  the  least 
tired  of  his  three  horses  to  his  lightest  cart  and 
wait  in  the  road  beyond  the  cottage.  Stand  in  the 
road  yourself  while  that  is  being  done.  Oliver  will 
come  that  way ;  detain  him.  I  will  j  oin  you  there ; 

I    have   only    to   see   to   my   papers— at   the    most, 

Tu 
twenty  minutes.  Go  quickly,  my  rViend !  " 

I  strode  to  the  door  and  out  to  the  gallery.  I  was 
[247] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

half-way  down  the  steps  before  I  saw  that  Oliver 
Saffren  was  already  in  the  courtyard,  coming  toward 
me  from  the  archway  with  a  light  and  buoyant 
step. 

He  looked  up,  waving  his  hat  to  me,  his  face 
lighted  with  a  happiness  most  remarkable,  and 
brighter,  even,  than  the  strong,  midsummer  sunshine 
flaming  over  him.  Dressed  in  white  as  he  was,  and 
with  the  air  of  victory  he  wore,  he  might  have 
been,  at  that  moment,  a  figure  from  some  marble 
triumph;  youthful,  conquering — crowned  with  the 
laurel. 

I  had  time  only  to  glance  at  him,  to  "  take " 
him,  as  it  were,  between  two  shutter-flicks  of  the  in- 
stantaneous eyelid,  and  with  him,  the  courtyard 
flooded  with  sunshine,  the  figure  of  Madame  Bros- 
sard  emerging  from  her  little  office,  Amedee  coming 
from  the  kitchen  bearing  a  white-covered  tray,  and, 
entering  from  the  road,  upon  the  trail  of  Saffren 
but  still  in  the  shadow  of  the  archway,  the  discord- 
ant fineries  and  hatchet-face  of  the  ex-pedestrian  and 
tourist,  my  antagonist  of  the  forest. 

I  had  opened  my  mouth  to  call  a  warning. 

"  Hurry  "  was  the  word  I  would  have  said,  but 
[248] 


Chapter  Seventeen 

it  stopped  at  "  hur — ."  The  second  syllable  was 
never  uttered. 

There  came  a  violent  outcry,  raucous  and  shrill 
as  the  wail  of  a  captured  hen,  and  out  of  the  pas- 
sage across  the  courtyard  floundered  a  woman,  fan- 
tastically dressed  in  green  and  gold. 

Her  coarse  blue-black  hair  fell  dishevelled  upon 
her  shoulders,  from  which  her  gown  hung  precari- 
ously unfastened,  as  if  she  had  abandoned  her  toilet 
half-way.  She  was  abundantly  fat,  double-chinned, 
coarse,  greasy,  smeared  with  blue  pencillings,  car- 
mine, enamel,  and  rouge. 

At  the  scream  Saffren  turned.  She  made  straight 
at  him,  crying  wildly: 

"  Enfin!  Mon  mari,  mon  mart — c'est  moil  C'est  ta 
femme,  mon  cceur!  " 

She  threw  herself  upon  him,  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  with  a  tropical  ferocity  that  was  a  very  parox- 
ysm of  triumph. 

"  Embrasse  moi,  Larrabi!  Embrasse  moil "  she 
cried. 

Horrified,  outraged,  his  eyes  blazing,  he  flung  her 
off  with  a  violence  surpassing  her  own,  and  with 
loathing  unspeakable.  She  screamed  that  he  was  kill- 
[249] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

ing  her,  calling  him  "  husband,"  and  tried  to  fasten 
herself  upon  him  again.  But  he  leaped  backward 
beyond  the  reach  of  her  clutching  hands,  and,  turn- 
ing, plunged  to  the  steps  and  staggered  up  them, 
the  woman  following. 

From  above  me  leaned  the  stricken  face  of  Ke- 
redec;  he  caught  Saffren  under  the  arm  and  half 
lifted  him  to  the  gallery,  while  she  strove  to  hold 
him  by  the  knees. 

"  O  Christ !  "  gasped  Saffren.  "  Is  this  the  wom- 
an?" 

The  giant  swung  him  across  the  gallery  and  into 
the  open  door  with  one  great  sweep  of  the  arm, 
strode  in  after  him,  and  closed  and  bolted  the  door. 
The  woman  fell  in  a  heap  at  the  foot  of  the  steps, 
uttering  a  cracked  simulation  of  the  cry  of  a  broken 
heart. 

"  Name  of  a  name  of  God ! "  she  wailed.  "  After 
all  these  years !  And  my  husband  strikes  me !  " 

Then  it  was  that  what  had  been  in  my  mind  as 
a  monstrous  suspicion  became  a  certainty.  For  I 
recognised  the  woman ;  she  was  Mariana — la  bella 
Mariana  la  Mursiana. 

If  I  had  ever  known  Larrabee  Harman,  if,  instead 
[250] 


Chapter  Seventeen 

of  the  two  strange  glimpses  I  had  caught  of  him,  I 
had  been  familiar  with  his  gesture,  walk,  intonation 
— even,  perhaps,  if  I  had  ever  heard  his  voice — the 
truth  might  have  come  to  me  long  ago. 

Larrabee  Harman! 

"  Oliver  Saffren  "  was  Larrabee  Harman. 


[251] 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

1DO  not  like  to  read  those  poets  who  write  of 
pain  as  if  they  loved  it;  the  study  of  suffering 
is  for  the  cold  analyst,  for  the  vivisectionist,  for 
those  who  may  transfuse  their  knowledge  of  it  to  the 
ultimate  good  of  mankind.  And  although  I  am  so 
heavily  endowed  with  curiosity  concerning  the  peo- 
ple I  find  about  me,  my  gift  (or  curse,  whichever 
it  be)  knows  pause  at  the  gates  of  the  house  of 
calamity.  So,  if  it  were  possible,  I  would  not  speak 
of  the  agony  of  which  I  was  a  witness  that  night 
in  the  apartment  of  my  friends  at  Madame  Bros- 
sard's.  I  went  with  reluctance,  but  there  was  no 
choice.  Keredec  had  sent  for  me. 

.  .  .  When  I  was  about  fifteen,  a  boy  cousin  of 
mine,  several  years  younger,  terribly  injured  him- 
self on  the  Fourth  of  July;  and  I  sat  all  night  in 


Chapter  Eighteen 

the  room  with  him,  helping  his  mother.  Somehow 
he  had  learned  that  there  was  no  hope  of  saving  his 
sight;  he  was  an  imaginative  child  and  realised  the 
whole  meaning  of  the  catastrophe;  the  eternal  dark- 
ness. .  .  .  And  he  understood  that  the  thing  had 
been  done,  that  there  was  no  going  back  of  it.  This 
very  certainty  increased  the  intensity  of  his  rebellion 
a  thousandfold.  "  I  will  have  my  eyes !  "  he  screamed. 
"  I  will!  I  will! " 

Keredec  had  told  his  tragic  ward  too  little.  The 
latter  had  understood  but  vaguely  the  nature  of  the 
catastrophe  which  overhung  his  return  to  France, 
and  now  that  it  was  indeed  concrete  and  definite, 
the  guardian  was  forced  into  fuller  disclosures,  every 
word  making  the  anguish  of  the  listener  more  in- 
tolerable. It  was  the  horizonless  despair  of  a  child; 
and  that  profound  protest  I  had  so  often  seen 
smouldering  in  his  eyes  culminated,  at  its  crisis,  in  a 
wild  flame  of  revolt.  The  shame  of  the  revelation 
passed  over  him;  there  was  nothing  of  the  disas- 
trous drunkard,  sober,  learning  what  he  had  done. 
To  him,  it  seemed  that  he  was  being  forced  to  suffer 
for  the  sins  of  another  man. 
[253] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Do  you  think  that  you  can  make  me  believe  /  did 
this  ?  "  he  cried.  "  That  I  made  life  unbearable  for 
her,  drove  her  from  me,  and  took  this  hideous, 
painted  old  woman  in  her  place?  It's  a  lie.  You 
can't  make  me  believe  such  a  monstrous  lie  as  that! 
You  can't!  You  can't!  " 

He  threw  himself  violently  upon  the  couch,  face 
downward,  shuddering  from  head  to  foot. 

"  My  poor  boy,  it  is  the  truth,"  said  Keredec, 
kneeling  beside  him  and  putting  a  great  arm  across 
his  shoulders.  "  It  is  what  a  thousand  men  are  doing 
this  night.  Nothing  is  more  common,  or  more  un- 
explainable — or  more  simple.  Of  all  the  nations  it 
is  the  same,  wherever  life  has  become  artificial  and 
the  poor,  foolish  young  men  have  too  much  money 
and  nothing  to  do.  You  do  not  understand  it,  but 
our  friend  here,  and  I,  we  understand  because  we 
remember  what  we  have  been  seeing  all  our  life. 
You  say  it  is  not  you  who  did  such  crazy,  horrible 
things,  and  you  are  right.  When  this  poor  woman 
who  is  so  painted  and  greasy  first  caught  you,  when 
you  began  to  give  your  money  and  your  time  and 
your  life  to  her,  when  she  got  you  into  this  horrible 
marriage  with  her,  you  were  blind — you  went  stag- 
[254] 


Chapter  Eighteen 

gering,  in  a  bad  dream;  your  soul  hid  away,  far 
down  inside  you,  with  its  hands  over  its  face.  If  it 
could  have  once  stood  straight,  if  the  eyes  of  your 
body  could  have  once  been  clean  for  it  to  look  through, 
if  you  could  have  once  been  as  you  are  to-day,  or 
as  you  were  when  you  were  a  little  child,  you  would 
have  cry  out  with  horror  both  of  her  and  of  yourself, 
as  you  do  now;  and  you  would  have  run  away  from 
her  and  from  everything  you  had  put  in  your  life. 
But,  in  your  suffering  you  must  rejoice:  the  triumph 
is  that  your  mind  hates  that  old  life  as  greatly  as 
your  soul  hates  it.  You  are  as  good  as  if  you  had 
never  been  the  wild  fellow — yes,  the  wicked  fellow — 
that  you  were.  For  a  man  who  shakes  off  his  sin 
is  clean ;  he  stands  as  pure  as  if  he  had  never  sinned. 
But  though  his  emancipation  can  be  so  perfect, 
there  is  a  law  that  he  cannot  escape  from  the 
result  of  all  the  bad  and  foolish  things  he  has 
done,  for  every  act,  every  breath  you  draw,  is  im- 
mortal, and  each  has  a  consequence  that  is  never 
ending.  And  so,  now,  though  you  are  purified,  the 
suffering  from  these  old  actions  is  here,  and  you 
must  abide  it.  Ah,  but  that  is  a  little  thing, 
nothing! — that  suffering — compared  to  what  you 
[255] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

have    gained,     for    you    have     gained    your     own 
soul!" 

The  desperate  young  man  on  the  couch  answered 
only  with  the  sobbing  of  a  broken-hearted  child. 

I  came  back  to  my  pavilion  after  midnight,  but 
I  did  not  sleep,  though  I  lay  upon  my  bed  until 
dawn.  Then  I  went  for  a  long,  hard  walk,  break- 
fasted at  Dives,  and  begged  a  ride  back  to  Madame 
Brossard's  in  a  peasant's  cart  which  was  going  that 
way. 

I  found  George  Ward  waiting  for  me  on  the  little 
veranda  of  the  pavilion,  looking  handsomer  and  more 
prosperously  distinguished  and  distinguishedly  pros- 
perous and  generally  well-conditioned  than  ever — as 
I  told  him. 

"  I  have  some  news  for  you,"  he  said  after  the 
hearty  greeting — "  an  announcement,  in  fact." 

"  Wait ! "  I  glanced  at  the  interested  attitude  of 
Mr.  Earl  Percy,  who  was  breakfasting  at  a  table 
significantly  near  the  gallery  steps,  and  led  the  way 
into  the  pavilion.  "  You  may  as  well  not  tell  it  in 
the  hearing  of  that  young  man,"  I  said,  when  the 
door  was  closed.  "  He  is  eccentric." 
[256] 


Chapter  Eighteen 

"  So  I  gathered,"  returned  Ward,  smiling,  "  from 
his  attire.  But  it  really  wouldn't  matter  who 
heard  it.  Elizabeth's  going  to  marry  Cresson 
Ingle." 

"  That  is  the  news — the  announcement — you  spoke 
of?" 

"Yes,  that  is  it." 

To  save  my  life  I  could  not  have  told  at  that 
moment  what  else  I  had  expected,  or  feared,  that  he 
might  say,  but  certainly  I  took  a  deep  breath  of 
relief.  "  I  am  very  glad,"  I  said.  "  It  should  be  a 
happy  alliance." 

"  On  the  whole,  I  think  it  will  be,"  he  returned 
thoughtfully.  "  Ingle's  done  his  share  of  hard  living, 
and  I  once  had  a  notion  " — he  glanced  smilingly  at 
me — "  well,  I  dare  say  you  know  my  notion.  But  it 
is  a  good  match  for  Elizabeth  and  not  without  ad- 
vantages on  many  counts.  You  see,  it's  time  I 
married,  myself;  she  feels  that  very  strongly  and  I 
think  her  decision  to  accept  Ingle  is  partly  due  to 
her  wish  to  make  all  clear  for  a  new  mistress  of  my 
household, — though  that's  putting  it  in  a  rather 
grandiloquent  way."  He  laughed.  "  And  as  you 
probably  guess,  I  have  an  idea  that  some  such  ar- 
[257] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

rangement  might  be  somewhere  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind  on  its  way  to  me,  before  long." 

He  laughed  again,  but  I  did  not,  and  noting  my 
silence  he  turned  upon  me  a  more  scrutinising  look 
than  he  had  yet  given  me,  and  said : 

"  My  dear  fellow,  is  something  the  matter  ?  You 
look  quite  haggard.  You  haven't  been  ill?  " 

"  No,  I've  had  a  bad  night.  That's  all." 

"  Oh,  I  heard  something  of  a  riotous  scene  taking 
place  over  here,"  he  said.  "  One  of  the  gardeners 
was  talking  about  it  to  Elizabeth.  Your  bad  night 
wouldn't  be  connected  with  that,  would  it?  You 
haven't  been  playing  Samaritan  ?  " 

"  What  was  it  you  heard  ?  "  I  asked  quickly. 

"  I  didn't  pay  much  attention.  He  said  that  there 
was  great  excitement  at  Madame  Brossard's,  be- 
cause a  strange  woman  had  turned  up  and  claimed 
an  insane  young  man  at  the  inn  for  her  husband, 
and  that  they  had  a  fight  of  some  sort " 

"  Damnation !  "  I  started  from  my  chair.  "  Did 
Mrs.  Harman  hear  this  story  ?  " 

"  Not  last  night,  I'm  certain.  Elizabeth  said  the 
gardener  told  her  as  she  came  down  to  the  chateau 
gates  to  meet  me  when  I  arrived — it  was  late, 
[258] 


Chapter  Eighteen 

and  Louise  had  already  gone  to  her  room.  In  fact, 
I  have  not  seen  her  yet.  But  what  difference  could 
it  possibly  make  whether  she  heard  it  or  not?  She 
doesn't  know  these  people,  surely  ?  " 

"  She  knows  the  man." 

"  This  insane " 

"  He  is  not  insane,"  I  interrupted.  "  He  has  lost 
the  memory  of  his  earlier  life — lost  it  through  an 
accident.  You  and  I  saw  the  accident." 

"  That's  impossible,"  said  George,  frowning.  "  I 
never  saw  but  one  accident  that  you " 

"  That  was  the  one :  the  man  is  Larrabee  Har- 
man." 

George  had  struck  a  match  to  light  a  cigar;  but 
the  operation  remained  incomplete:  he  dropped  the 
match  upon  the  floor  and  set  his  foot  upon  it.  "  Well, 
tell  me  about  it,"  he  said. 

"  You  haven't  heard  anything  about  him  since 
the  accident?  " 

"  Only  that  he  did  eventually  recover  and  was 
taken  away  from  the  hospital.  I  heard  that  his  mind 
was  impaired.  Does  Louise — "  he  began;  stopped, 
and  cleared  his  throat.  "  Has  Mrs.  Harman  heard 
that  he  is  here?  " 

[259] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Yes ;  she  has  seen  him." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  scoundrel  has  been  bothering 
her?  Elizabeth  didn't  tell  me  of  this " 

"  Your  sister  doesn't  know,"  I  said,  lifting  my 
hand  to  check  him.  "  I  think  you  ought  to  under- 
stand the  whole  case — if  you'll  let  me  tell  you  what 
I  know  about  it." 

"  Go  ahead,"  he  bade  me.  "  I'll  try  to  listen  pa- 
tiently, though  the  very  thought  of  the  fellow  has 
always  set  my  teeth  on  edge." 

"  He's  not  at  all  what  you  think,"  I  said.  "  There's 
an  enormous  difference,  almost  impossible  to  explain 
to  you,  but  something  you'd  understand  at  once  if 
you  saw  him.  It's  such  a  difference,  in  fact,  that 
when  I  found  that  he  was  Larrabee  Harman  the 
revelation  was  inexpressibly  shocking  and  distress- 
ing to  me.  He  came  here  under  another  name;  I  had 
no  suspicion  that  he  was  any  one  I'd  ever  heard  of, 
much  less  that  I'd  actually  seen  him  twice,  two  years 
ago,  and  I've  grown  to — well,  in  truth,  to  be  fond 
of  him." 

"  What  is  the  change  ?  "  asked  Ward,  and  his 
voice  showed  that  he  was  greatly  disquieted.  "  What 
is  he  like?  " 

[260] 


Chapter  Eighteen 

"  As  well  as  I  can  tell  you,  he's  like  an  odd  but 
very  engaging  boy,  with  something  pathetic  about 
him;  quite  splendidly  handsome " 

"  Oh,  he  had  good  looks  to  spare  when  I  first 
knew  him,"  George  said  bitterly.  "  I  dare  say  he's 
got  them  back  if  he's  taken  care  of  himself,  or  been 
taken  care  of,  rather !  But  go  on ;  I  won't  interrupt 
you  again.  Why  did  he  come  here?  Hoping  to 
see " 

"  No.  When  he  came  here  he  did  not  know  of  her 
existence  except  in  the  vaguest  way.  But  to  go  back 
to  that,  I'd  better  tell  you  first  that  the  woman  we 
saw  with  him,  one  day  on  the  boulevard,  and  who 
was  in  the  accident  with  him " 

"  La  Mursiana,  the  dancer ;  I  know." 

"  She  had  got  him  to  go  through  a  marriage 
with  her — 

"  What?  "  Ward's  eyes  flashed  as  he  shouted  the 
word. 

"  It  seems  inexplicable ;  but  as  I  understand  it, 
he  was  never  quite  sober  at  that  time ;  he  had  begun 
to  use  drugs,  and  was  often  in  a  half-stupefied  con- 
dition. As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  woman  did  what 
she  pleased  with  him.  There's  no  doubt  about  the 
[261] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

validity  of  the  marriage.  And  what  makes  it  so  des- 
perate a  muddle  is  that  since  the  marriage  she's 
taken  good  care  to  give  no  grounds  upon  which  a 
divorce  could  be  obtained  for  Harman.  She  means 
to  hang  on." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that ! "  said  George,  striking  his 
knee  with  his  open  palm.  "  That  will  go  a  great 
Way  toward " 

He  paused,  and  asked  suddenly :  "  Did  this  mar- 
riage take  place  in  France  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You'd  better  hear  me  through,"  I  remon- 
strated. "  When  he  was  taken  from  the  hospital, 
he  was  placed  in  charge  of  a  Professor  Keredec,  a 
madman  of  whom  you've  probably  heard." 

"  Madman  ?  Why,  no ;  he's  a  member  of  the  In- 
stitute; a  psychologist  or  metaphysician,  isn't  he? — 
at  any  rate  of  considerable  celebrity." 

"  Nevertheless,"  I  insisted  grimly,  "  as  misty  a  va- 
pourer  as  I  ever  saw ;  a  poetic,  self-contradicting  and 
inconsistent  orator,  a  blower  of  bubbles,  a  seer  of 
visions,  a  mystic,  and  a  dreamer — about  as  scientific 
as  Alice's  White  Knight!  Harman's  aunt,  who  lived 
in  London,  the  only  relative  he  had  left,  I  believe — • 
and  she  has  died  since — put  him  in  Keredec's  charge, 


Chapter  Eighteen 

and  he  was  taken  up  into  the  Tyrol  and  virtually 
hidden  for  two  years,  the  idea  being  literally  to  give 
him  something  like  an  education — Keredec's  phrase 
is  '  restore  mind  to  his  soul ' !  What  must  have  been 
quite  as  vital  was  to  get  him  out  of  his  horrible  wife's 
clutches.  And  they  did  it,  for  she  could  not  find 
him.  But  she  picked  up  that  rat  in  the  garden 
out  yonder — he'd  been  some  sort  of  stable-manager 
for  Harman  once — and  set  him  on  the  track.  He 
ran  the  poor  boy  down,  and  yesterday  she  fol- 
lowed him.  Now  it  amounts  to  a  species  of  sordid 
siege." 

"  She  wants  money,  of  course." 

"  Yes,  more  money ;  a  fair  allowance  has  always 
been  sent  to  her.  Keredec  has  interviewed  her  notary 
and  she  wants  a  settlement,  naming  a  sum  actu- 
ally larger  than  the  whole  estate  amounts  to.  There 
were  colossal  expenditures  and  equally  large  shrink- 
ages ;  what  he  has  left  is  invested  in  English  securi- 
ties and  is  not  a  fortune,  but  of  course  she  won't 
believe  that  and  refuses  to  budge  until  this  im- 
possible settlement  is  made.  You  can  imagine  about 
how  competent  such  a  man  as  Keredec  would  be  to 
deal  with  the  situation.  In  the  mean  time,  his  ward  is 
[263] 


The  Guest  of  Qucsnay 

in  so  dreadful  a  state  of  horror  and  grief  I  am 
afraid  it  is  possible  that  his  mind  may  really  give 
way,  for  it  was  not  in  a  normal  condition,  of  course, 
though  he's  perfectly  sane,  as  I  tell  you.  If  it 
should,"  I  concluded,  with  some  bitterness,  "  I  sup- 
pose Keredec  will  be  still  prating  upliftingly  on  the 
saving  of  his  soul !  " 

"  When  was  it  that  Louise  saw  him  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that,"  I  said,  "  is  where  Keredec  has  been 
a  poet  and  a  dreamer  indeed.  It  was  his  plan  that 
they  should  meet." 

"  You  mean  he  brought  this  wreck  of  Harman, 
these  husks  and  shreds  of  a  man,  down  here  for 
Louise  to  see  ? "  Ward  cried  incredulously.  "  Oh, 
monstrous ! " 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  Only  insane.  Not  because 
there  is  anything  lacking  in  Oliver — in  Harman, 
I  mean — for  I  think  that  will  be  righted  in  time, 
but  because  the  second  marriage  makes  it  a  use- 
less cruelty  that  he  should  have  been  allowed  to 
fall  in  love  with  his  first  wife  again.  Yet  that  was 
Keredec's  idea  of  a  ( beautiful  restoration,'  as  he 
calls  it!" 

"  There  is  something  behind  all  this  that  you 
[264] 


Chapter  Eighteen 

don't  know,"  said  Ward  slowly.  "  I'll  tell  you  after 
I've  seen  this  Keredec.  When  did  the  man  make  you 
his  confidant  ?  " 

"  Last  night.  Most  of  what  I  learned  was  as  much 
a  revelation  to  his  victim  as  it  was  to  me.  Harman 
did  not  know  till  then  that  the  lady  he  had  been 
meeting  had  been  his  wife,  or  that  he  had  ever  seen 
her  before  he  came  here.  He  had  mistaken  her  name 
and  she  did  not  enlighten  him." 

"Meeting?"  said  Ward  harshly.  "You  speak  as 
if " 

"  They  have  been  meeting  every  day,  George." 

"  I  won't  believe  it  of  her ! "  he  cried.  "  She 
couldn't " 

"  It's  true.  He  spoke  to  her  in  the  woods  one  day ; 
I  was  there  and  saw  it.  I  know  now  that  she  knew 
him  at  once;  and  she  ran  away,  but — not  in  anger. 
I  shouldn't  be  a  very  good  friend  of  yours,"  I  went 
on  gently,  "  if  I  didn't  give  you  the  truth.  They've 
been  together  every  day  since  then,  and  I'm  afraid — 
miserably  afraid,  Ward — that  her  old  feeling  for 
him  has  been  revived." 

I  have  heard  Ward  use  an  oath  only  two  or  three 
times  in  my  life,  and  this  was  one  of  them. 
[265] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Oh,  by  God ! "  he  cried,  starting  to  his  feet ; 
"  I  should  like  to  meet  Professor  Keredec !  " 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  my  dear  sir,"  said  a  deep 
voice  from  the  veranda.  And  opening  the  door,  the 
professor  walked  into  the  room. 


[266] 


CHAPTER    NINETEEN 

HE  looked  old  and  tired  and  sad ;  it  was  plain 
that  he  expected  attack  and  equally  plain 
that  he  would  meet  it  with  fanatic  serenity. 
And  yet,  the  magnificent  blunderer  presented  so  fine 
an  aspect  of  the  tortured  Olympian,  he  confronted  us 
with  so  vast  a  dignity — the  driven  snow  of  his  hair 
tousled  upon  his  head  and  shoulders,  like  a  storm  in 
the  higher  altitudes — that  he  regained,  in  my  eyes, 
something  of  his  mountain  grandeur  before  he  had 
spoken  a  word  in  defence.  But  sympathy  is  not  what 
one  should  be  entertaining  for  an  antagonist;  there- 
fore I  said  cavalierly : 

"  This  is  Mr.  Ward,  Professor  Keredec.  He  is 
Mrs.  Harman's  cousin  and  close  friend." 

"  I  had  divined  it."  The  professor  made  a  French' 
bow,  and  George  responded  with  as  slight  a  saluta- 
tion as  it  has  been  my  lot  to  see. 

"  We   were   speaking    of   your   reasons,"   I    con- 
[£67] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

tinued,  "  for  bringing  Mr.   Harman  to  this  place* 
Frankly,  we  were  questioning  your  motives." 

"  My  motives  ?  I  have  wished  to  restore  to  two 
young  people  the  paradise  which  they  had  losed." 

Ward  uttered  an  exclamation  none  the  less  violent 
because  it  was  half-suppressed,  while,  for  my  part, 
I  laughed  outright;  and  as  Keredec  turned  his  eyes 
questioningly  upon  me,  I  said: 

"  Professor  Keredec,  you'd  better  understand  at 
once  that  I  mean  to  help  undo  the  harm  you've  done. 
I  couldn't  tell  you  last  night,  in  Harman's  presence, 
but  I  think  you're  responsible  for  the  whole  ghastly 
tragi-comedy — as  hopeless  a  tangle  as  ever  was  made 
on  this  earth !  " 

This  was  even  more  roughly  spoken  than  I  had 
intended,  but  it  did  not  cause  him  to  look  less  mildly 
upon  me,  nor  was  there  the  faintest  shadow  of  re- 
sentment in  his  big  voice  when  he  replied: 

"  In  this  world  things  may  be  tangled,  they  may 
be  sad,  yet  they  may  be  good." 

"  I'm  afraid  that  seems  rather  a  trite  generality. 
I  beg  you  to  remember  that  plain-speaking  is  of 
some  importance  just  now." 

"  I  shall  remember." 

[268] 


Chapter  Nineteen 

"  Then  we  should  be  glad  of  the  explanation," 
said  Ward,  resting  his  arms  on  my  table  and  leaning 
across  it  toward  Keredec. 

"  We  should,  indeed,"  I  echoed. 

"  It  is  simple,"  began  the  professor.  "  I  learned 
my  poor  boy's  history  well,  from  those  who  could 
tell  me,  from  his  papers — yes,  and  from  the  bundles 
of  old-time  letters  which  were  given  me — since  it  was 
necessary  that  I  should  know  everything.  From  all 
these  I  learned  what  a  strong  and  beautiful  soul 
was  that  lady  who  loved  him  so  much  that  she  ran 
away  from  her  home  for  his  sake.  Helas!  he  was  al- 
ready the  slave  of  what  was  bad  and  foolish,  he 
had  gone  too  far  from  himself,  was  overlaid  with 
the  habit  of  evil,  and  she  could  not  save  him  then. 
The  spirit  was  dying  in  him,  although  it  was  there, 
and  it  was  good " 

Ward's  acrid  laughter  rang  out  in  the  room,  and 
my  admiration  went  unwillingly  to  Keredec  for  the 
way  he  took  it,  which  was  to  bow  gravely,  as  if  ac- 
knowledging the  other's  right  to  his  own  point  of  view. 

"  If  you  will  study  the  antique  busts,"  he  said, 
"  you  will  find  that  Socrates  is  Silenus  dignified. 
I  choose  to  believe  in  the  infinite  capacities  ^  «11  men 
[269] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

— and  in  the  spirit  in  all.  And  so  I  try  to  restore 
my  poor  boy  his  capacities  and  his  spirit.  But  that 
was  not  all.  The  time  was  coming  when  I  could  do  no 
more  for  him,  when  the  little  education  of  books  would 
be  finish*  and  he  must  go  out  in  the  world  again 
to  learn — all  newly — how  to  make  of  himself  a  man 
of  use.  That  is  the  time  of  danger,  and  the  thought 
was  troubling  me  when  I  learned  that  Madame  Har- 
man  was  here,  near  this  inn,  of  which  I  knew.  So 
I  brought  him." 

"  The  inconceivable  selfishness,  the  devilish  bru- 
tality of  it !  "  Ward's  face  was  scarlet.  "  You  didn't 
care  how  you  sacrificed  her " 

"  Sacrificed ! "  The  professor  suddenly  released 
the  huge  volume  of  his  voice.  "  Sacrificed !  "  he  thun- 
dered. "  If  I  could  give  him  back  to  her  as  he  is 
now,  it  would  be  restoring  to  her  all  that  she  had 
loved  in  him,  the  real  self  of  him!  It  would  be  the 
greatest  gift  in  her  life." 

"  You  speak  for  her  ?  "  demanded  Ward,  the  ques- 
tion coming  like  a  lawyer's.  It  failed  to  disturb 
Keredec,  who  replied  quietly: 

"  It  is  a  quibble.  I  speak  for  her,  yes,  my  dear  sir. 
Her  action  in  defiance  of  her  family  and  her  friends 
[270] 


Chapter  Nineteen 

proved  the  strength  of  what  she  felt  for  the  man 
she  married;  that  she  have  remained  with  him  three 
years — until  it  was  impossible — proved  its  persist- 
ence ;  her  letters,  which  I  read  with  reverence,  proved 
its  beauty — to  me.  It  was  a  living  passion,  one  that 
could  not  die.  To  let  them  see  each  other  again :  that 
was  all  I  intended.  To  give  them  their  new  chance — 
and  then,  for  myself,  to  keep  out  of  the  way.  That 
was  why — "  he  turned  to  me — "  that  was  why  I  have 
been  guilty  of  pretending  to  have  that  bad  rheuma- 
tism, and  I  hope  you  will  not  think  it  an  ugly  trick 
of  me!  It  was  to  give  him  his  chance  freely;  and 
though  at  first  I  had  much  anxieties,  it  was  done. 
In  spite  of  all  his  wicked  follies  theirs  had  been  a 
true  love,  and  nothing  in  this  world  could  be  more 
inevitable  than  that  they  should  come  together  again 
if  the  chance  could  be  given.  And  they  have,  my  dear 
sirs !  It  has  so  happened.  To  him  it  has  been  a  woo- 
ing as  if  for  the  first  time;  so  she  has  preferred  it, 
keeping  him  to  his  mistake  of  her  name.  She  feared 
that  if  he  knew  that  it  was  the  same  as  his  own  he 
might  ask  questions  of  me,  and,  you  see,  she  did  not 
know  that  I  had  made  this  little  plan,  and  was 

afraid " 

[271] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  We  are  not  questioning  Mrs.  Harman's  mo- 
tives," George  interrupted  hotly,  "  but  yours!  " 

"  Very  well,  my  dear  sir ;  that  is  all.  I  have  ex- 
plained them." 

"  You  have?  "  I  interjected.  "  Then,  my  dear  Ke- 
redec,  either  you  are  really  insane  or  I  am !  You  knew 
that  this  poor,  unfortunate  devil  of  a  Harman  was 
tied  to  that  hyenic  prowler  yonder  who  means  to 
fatten  on  him,  and  will  never  release  him;  you  knew 
that.  Then  why  did  you  bring  him  down  here  to 
fall  in  love  with  a  woman  he  can  never  have?  In 
pity's  name,  if  you  didn't  hope  to  half  kill  them 
both,  what  did  you  mean  ?  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  interposed  George  quickly, 
"  you  underrate  Professor  Keredec's  shrewdness.  His 
plans  are  not  so  simple  as  you  think.  He  knows  that 
my  cousin  Louise  never  obtained  a  divorce  from  her 
husband." 

"  What  ?  "  I  said,  not  immediately  comprehending 
his  meaning. 

"  I  say,  Mrs.  Harman  never  obtained  a  di- 
vorce." 

"  Are  you  delirious  ?  "  I  gasped. 

"  It's  the  truth ;  she  never  did." 
[272] 


Chapter  Nineteen 

"  I  saw  a  notice  of  it  at  the  time.  *  A  notice  ?  '  I 
saw  a  hundred !  " 

"  No.  What  you  saw  was  that  she  had  made 
an  application  for  divorce.  Her  family  got  her 
that  far  and  then  she  revolted.  The  suit  was 
dropped." 

"  It  is  true,  indeed,"  said  Keredec.  "  The  poor  boy 
was  on  the  other  side  of  the  world,  and  he  thought 
it  was  granted.  He  had  been  bad  before,  but  from 
that  time  he  cared  nothing  what  became  of  him. 

That  was  the  reason  this  Spanish  woman " 

I  turned  upon  him  sharply.  "  You  knew  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  year  that  I  have  known  it ;  when  his 

estate  was " 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  tell  me  last  night  ?  " 
"  My  dear  sir,  I  could  not  in  his  presence,  because 
it  is  one  thing  I  dare  not  let  him  know.  This  Spanish 
woman  is  so  hideous,  her  claim  upon  him  is  so  horri- 
ble to  him  I  could  not  hope  to  control  him — he  would 
shout  it  out  to  her  that  she  cannot  call  him  husband. 
God  knows  what  he  would  do !  " 

"  Well,  why  shouldn't  he  shout  it  out  to  her?  " 
'*  You    do    not    understand,"    George    interposed 
again,  "  that  what  Professor  Keredec  risked  for  his 
[273] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

'  poor  boy,'  in  returning  to  France,  was  a  trial  on 
the  charge  of  bigamy !  " 

The  professor  recoiled  from  the  definite  brutality, 
"  My  dear  sir !  It  is  not  possible  that  such  a  thing 
can  happen." 

"  I  conceive  it  very  likely  to  happen,"  said  George, 
"  unless  you  get  him  out  of  the  country  before  the 
lady  now  installed  here  as  his  wife  discovers  the 
truth." 

"  But  she  must  not ! "  Keredec  lifted  both  hands 
toward  Ward  appealingly;  they  trembled,  and  his 
voice  betrayed  profound  agitation.  "  She  cannot !  She 
has  never  suspected  such  a  thing;  there  is  nothing 
that  could  make  her  suspect  it ! " 

"  One  particular  thing  would  be  my  telling  her," 
said  Ward  quietly. 

"  Never !  "  cried  the  professor,  stepping  back  from 
him.  "  You  could  not  do  that !  " 

"  I  not  only  could,  but  I  will,  unless  you  get  him 
out  of  the  country — and  quickly !  " 

"  George !  "  I  exclaimed,  coming  forward  between 
them.  "  This  won't  do  at  all.  You  can't " 

"  That's  enough,"  he  said,  waving  me  back,  and 
I  saw  that  his  hand  was  shaking,  too,  like  Keredec's. 
[274] 


Chapter  Nineteen 

His  face  had  grown  very  white;  but  he  controlled 
himself  to  speak  with  a  coolness  that  made  what  he 
said  painfully  convincing.  "  I  know  what  you  think," 
he  went  on,  addressing  me,  "  but  you're  wrong.  It 
isn't  for  myself.  When  I  sailed  for  New  York  in  the 
spring  I  thought  there  was  a  chance  that  she  would 
carry  out  the  action  she  began  four  years  ago  and 
go  through  the  form  of  ridding  herself  of  him  defi- 
nitely; that  is,  I  thought  there  was  some  hope  for 
me;  I  believed  there  was  until  this  morning.  But  I 
know  better  now.  If  she's  seen  him  again,  and  he's 
been  anything  except  literally  unbearable,  it's  all 
over  with  me.  From  the  first,  I  never  had  a  chance 
against  him;  he  was  a  hard  rival,  even  when  he'd 
become  only  a  cruel  memory."  His  voice  rose.  "  I've 
lived  a  sober,  decent  life,  and  I've  treated  her  with 
gentleness  and  reverence  since  she  was  born,  and 
he's  done  nothing  but  make  a  stew-pan  of  his  life 
and  neglect  and  betray  her  when  he  had  her.  Heaven 
knows  why  it  is;  it  isn't  because  of  anything  he's 
done  or  has,  it's  just  because  it's  him,  I  suppose, 
but  I  know  my  chance  is  gone  for  good!  That  leaves 
me  free  to  act  for  her;  no  one  can  accuse  me  of 
doing  it  for  myself.  And  I  swear  she  sha'n't  go 
[275] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

through  that  slough  of  despond  again  while  I  have 
breath  in  my  body !  " 

"  Steady,  George !  "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  I'm  steady  enough,"  he  cried.  "  Professor 
Keredec  shall  be  convinced  of  it!  My  cousin  is  not 
going  into  the  mire  again;  she  shall  be  freed  of  it 
for  ever :  I  speak  as  her  relative  now,  the  representa- 
tive of  her  family  and  of  those  who  care  for  her  hap- 
piness and  good.  Now  she  shall  make  the  separation 
definite — and  legal!  And  let  Professor  Keredec  get 
his  t  poor  boy  '  out  of  the  country.  Let  him  do  it 
quickly!  I  make  it  as  a  condition  of  my  not  inform- 
ing the  woman  yonder  and  her  lawyer.  And  by  my 
hope  of  salvation  I  warn  you " 

"  George,  for  pity's  sake ! "  I  shouted,  throwing 
my  arm  about  his  shoulders,  for  his  voice  had  risen 
to  a  pitch  of  excitement  and  fury  that  I  feared  must 
bring  the  whole  place  upon  us.  He  caught  himself 
up  suddenly,  stared  at  me  blankly  for  a  moment, 
then  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  groan.  As  he  did  so, 
I  became  aware  of  a  sound  that  had  been  worrying 
my  subconsciousness  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time, 
and  realised  what  it  was.  Some  one  was  knocking  for 
admission. 

[276] 


Chapter  Nineteen 

I  crossed  the  room  and  opened  the  door.  Miss 
Elizabeth  stood  there,  red-faced  and  flustered,  and 
behind  her  stood  Mr.  Cresson  Ingle,  who  looked 
dubiously  amused. 

"  Ah — come  in,"  I  said  awkwardly.  "  George  is 
here.  Let  me  present  Professor  Keredec " 

"  '  George  is  here ! '  "  echoed  Miss  Elizabeth,  in- 
terrupting, and  paying  no  attention  whatever  to  an 
agitated  bow  on  the  part  of  the  professor.  "  I  should 
say  he  was!  They  probably  know  that  all  the  way 
to  Trouville!" 

"  We  were  discussing — "  I  began. 

"  Ah,  I  know  what  you  were  discussing,"  she  said 
impatiently.  "  Come  in,  Cresson."  She  turned  to  Mr. 
Ingle,  who  was  obviously  reluctant.  "  It  is  a  fam- 
ily matter,  and  you'll  have  to  go  through  with  it 
now." 

"That  reminds  me,"  I  said.  "May  I  offer " 

"  Not  now ! "  Miss  Elizabeth  cut  short  a  rather 
embarrassed  handshake  which  her  betrothed  and  I 
were  exchanging.  "  I'm  in  a  very  nervous  and  dis- 
tressed state  of  mind,  as  I  suppose  we  all  are,  for 
that  matter.  This  morning  I  learned  the  true  situa- 
tion over  here;  and  I'm  afraid  Louise  has  heard; 
[277] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

at  least  she's  not  at  Quesnay.  I  got  into  a  panic  for 
fear  she  had  come  here,  but  thank  heaven  she  does 
not  seem  to — Good  gracious !  What's  that  ?  " 

It  was  the  discordant  voice  of  Mariana  la  Mur- 
siana,  crackling  in  strident  protest.  My  door  was 
still  open;  I  turned  to  look  and  saw  her,  hot-faced, 
tousle-haired,  insufficiently  wrapped,  striving  to  as- 
cend the  gallery  steps,  but  valiantly  opposed  by 
Madame  Brossard,  who  stood  in  the  way. 

"  But  no,  madame,"  insisted  Madame  Brossard, 
excited  but  darkly  determined.  "  You  cannot  ascend. 
There  is  nothing  on  the  upper  floor  of  this  wing 
except  the  apartment  of  Professor  Keredec." 

"  Name  of  a  dog ! "  shrilled  the  other.  "  It  is  my 
husband's  apartment,  I  tell  you.  II  y  a  une  femme 
avec  lull " 

"  It  is  Madame  Harman  who  is  there,"  said  Ke- 
redec hoarsely  in  my  ear.  "  I  came  away  and  left 
them  together." 

"  Come,"  I  said,  and,  letting  the  others  think  what 
they  would,  sprang  across  the  veranda,  the  professor 
beside  me,  and  ran  toward  the  two  women  who  were 
beginning  to  struggle  with  more  than  their  tongues. 
I  leaped  by  them  and  up  the  steps,  but  Keredec 
[278] 


Chapter  Nineteen 

thrust  himself  between  our  hostess  and  her  oppo- 
nent, planting  his  great  bulk  on  the  lowest  step. 
Glancing  hurriedly  over  my  shoulder,  I  saw  the 
Spanish  woman  strike  him  furiously  upon  the 
breast  with  both  hands,  but  I  knew  she  would  never 
pass  him. 

I  entered  the  salon  of  the  "  Grande  Suite,"  and 
closed  the  door  quickly  behind  me. 

Louise  Harman  was  standing  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room;  she  wore  the  pretty  dress  of  white  and 
lilac  and  the  white  hat.  She  looked  cool  and  beauti- 
ful and  good,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  To 
come  into  this  quiet  chamber  and  see  her  so,  after 
the  hot  sunshine  and  tawdry  scene  below,  was  like 
leaving  the  shouting  market-place  for  a  shadowy 
chapel. 

Her  husband  was  kneeling  beside  her ;  he  held  one 
of  her  hands  in  both  of  his,  her  other  rested  upon 
his  head;  and  something  in  their  attitudes  made  me 
know  I  had  come  in  upon  their  leave-taking.  But 
from  the  face  he  lifted  toward  her  all  trace  of  his 
tragedy  had  passed :  the  wonder  and  worship  written 
there  left  no  room  for  anything  else. 
[279] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Mrs.  Harman — "  I  began. 

"Yes?"  she  said.  "I  am  coming." 

"  But  I  don't  want  you  to.  I've  come  for  fear 
you  would,  and  you — you  must  not,"  I  stammered. 
"  You  must  wait." 

"Why?" 

"  It's  necessary,"  I  floundered.  "  There  is  a 
scene " 

"  I  know,"  she  said  quietly.  "  That  must  be,  of 
course." 

Harman  rose,  and  she  took  both  his  hands,  hold- 
ing them  against  her  breast. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  gently, — "  my  dearest,  you 
must  stay.  Will  you  promise  not  to  pass  that  door, 
even,  until  you  have  word  from  me  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  huskily,  "  if  you'll  promise 
it  shall  come — some  day  ?  " 

"  It  shall,  indeed.  Be  sure  of  it." 

I  had  turned  away,  but  I  heard  the  ghost  of  his 
voice  whispering  "  good-bye."  Then  she  was  beside 
me  and  opening  the  door. 

I  tried  to  stay  her. 

"  Mrs.    Harman,"    I    urged,    "  I    earnestly    beg 

you " 

[280] 


Chapter  Nineteen 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  this   is  better." 

She  stepped  out  upon  the  gallery;  I  followed, 
and  she  closed  the  door.  Upon  the  veranda  of  my 
pavilion  were  my  visitors  from  Quesnay,  staring 
up  at  us  apprehensively;  Madame  Brossard  and 
Keredec  still  held  the  foot  of  the  steps,  but  la  Mur- 
siana  had  abandoned  the  siege,  and,  accompanied  by 
Mr.  Percy  and  Rameau,  the  black-bearded  notary, 
who  had  joined  her,  was  crossing  the  garden  toward 
her  own  apartment. 

At  the  sound  of  the  closing  door,  she  glanced 
over  her  shoulder,  sent  forth  a  scream,  and,  whirl- 
ing about,  ran  viciously  for  the  steps,  where  she 
was  again  blocked  by  the  indomitable  Keredec. 

"  Ah,  you  foolish  woman,  I  know  who  you  are," 
she  cried,  stepping  back  from  him  to  shake  a  mena- 
cing hand  at  the  quiet  lady  by  my  side.  "  You  want 
to  get  yourself  into  trouble!  That  man  in  the  room 
up  there  has  been  my  husband  these  two  years  and 
more." 

"  No,  madame,"  said  Louise  Harman,  "  you  are 
mistaken;  he  is  my  husband." 

"  But  you   divorced  him,"   vociferated  the  other 
wildly.  "  You  divorced  him  in  America ! " 
[281] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  No.  You  are  mistaken,"  the  quiet  voice  re- 
plied. "  The  suit  was  withdrawn.  He  is  still  my 
husband." 

I  heard  the  professor's  groan  of  despair,  but  it 
was  drowned  in  the  wild  shriek  of  Mariana.  "  What? 
You  tell  me  that?  Ah,  the  miserable!  If  what  you 
say  is  true,  he  shall  pay  bitterly!  He  shall  wish 
that  he  had  died  by  fire!  What!  You  think  he  can 
marry  me,  break  my  leg  so  that  I  cannot  dance 
again,  ruin  my  career,  and  then  go  away  with  a 
pretty  woman  like  you  and  be  happy?  Aha,  there 
are  prisons  in  France  for  people  who  marry  two 
like  that;  I  do  not  know  what  they  do  in  your 
barbaric  country,  but  they  are  decent  people  over 
here  and  they  punish.  He  shall  pay  for  it  in  suffer- 
ing— "  her  voice  rose  to  an  incredible  and  unbear- 
able shriek — "  and  you,  you  shall  pay,  too !  You 
can't  come  stealing  honest  women's  husbands  like 
that.  You  shall  pay!  " 

I  saw  George  Ward  come  running  forward  with 
his  hand  upraised  in  a  gesture  of  passionate  warn- 
ing, for  Mrs.  Harman,  unnoticed  by  me — I  was 
watching  the  Spanish  woman — had  descended  the 
steps  and  had  passed  Keredec,  walking  straight  to 
[282] 


Chapter  Nineteen 

Mariana.  I  leaped  down  after  her,  my  heart  in  my 
throat,  fearing  a  thousand  things. 

"  You  must  not  talk  like  that,"  she  said,  not  lift- 
ing her  voice — yet  every  one  in  the  courtyard  heard 
her  distinctly.  "  You  can  do  neither  of  us  any  harm 
in  the  world." 


[283] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

IT  is  impossible  to  say  what  Mariana  would  have 
done  had  there  been  no  interference,  for  she 
had  worked  herself  into  one  of  those  furies  which 
women  of  her  type  can  attain  when  they  feel  the 
occasion  demands  it,  a  paroxysm  none  the  less  dan- 
gerous because  its  foundation  is  histrionic.  But  Ra- 
meau  threw  his  arms  about  her;  Mr.  Percy  came 
hastily  to  his  assistance,  and  Ward  and  I  sprang  in 
between  her  and  the  too-fearless  lady  she  strove  to 
reach.  Even  at  that,  the  finger-nails  of  Mariana's 
right  hand  touched  the  pretty  white  hat — but  only 
touched  it  and  no  more. 

Rameau  and  the  little  spy  managed  to  get  their 
vociferating  burden  across  the  courtyard  and  into 
her  own  door,  where  she  suddenly  subsided,  dis- 
appearing within  the  passage  to  her  apartment  in 
unexpected  silence — indubitably  a  disappointment  to 
the  interested  Amedee,  to  Glouglou,  Fra^ois,  and 
the  whole  personnel  of  the  inn,  who  hastened  to 
[284] 


Chapter  Twenty 

group  themselves  about  the  door  in  attentive  atti- 
tudes. 

"  In  heaven's  name,"  gasped  Miss  Elizabeth,  seiz- 
ing her  cousin  by  the  arm,  "  come  into  the  pavilion. 
Here's  the  whole  world  looking  at  us ! " 

"  Professor  Keredec — "  Mrs.  Harman  began,  re- 
sisting, and  turning  to  the  professor  appealingly. 

"  Oh,  let  him  come  too ! "  said  Miss  Elizabeth 
desperately.  "  Nothing  could  be  worse  than  this ! " 

She  led  the  way  back  to  the  pavilion,  and,  refus- 
ing to  consider  a  proposal  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Ingle 
and  myself  to  remain  outside,  entered  the  room  last, 
herself,  producing  an  effect  of  "  shooing  "  the  rest 
of  us  in;  closed  the  door  with  surprising  force,  re- 
lapsed in  a  chair,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Not  a  soul  at  Quesnay,"  sobbed  the  mortified 
chatelaine — "  not  one  but  will  know  this  before 
dinner!  They'll  hear  the  whole  thing  within  two 
hours." 

"  Isn't  there  any  way  of  stopping  that,  at  least?  " 
Ward  said  to  me. 

"  None  on  earth,  unless  you  go  home  at  once  and 
turn  your  visitors  and  their  servants  out  of  the 
house,"  I  answered. 

[  285  ] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  There  is  nothing  they  shouldn't  know,"  said 
Mrs.  Harman. 

George  turned  to  her  with  a  smile  so  bravely  man- 
aged that  I  was  proud  of  him.  "  Oh,  yes,  there  is," 
he  said.  "  We're  going  to  get  you  out  of  all  this." 

"All  this?"   she  repeated. 

"  All  this  mire!  "  he  answered.  "  We're  going  to 
get  you  out  of  it  and  keep  you  out  of  it,  now,  for 
good.  I  don't  know  whether  your  revelation  to  the 
Spanish  woman  will  make  that  easier  or  harder,  but 
I  do  know  that  it  makes  the  mire  deeper." 

"For  whom?" 

"  For  Harman.  But  you  sha'n't  share  it ! " 

Her  anxious  eyes  grew  wider.  "  How  have  I  made 
it  deeper  for  him?  Wasn't  it  necessary  that  the 
poor  woman  should  be  told  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Professor  Keredec  seemed  to  think  it  important 
that  she  shouldn't." 

She  turned  to  Keredec  with  a  frightened  gesture 
and  an  unintelligible  word  of  appeal,  as  if  entreat- 
ing him  to  deny  what  George  had  said.  The  pro- 
fessor's beard  was  trembling;  he  looked  haggard; 
an  almost  pitiable  apprehension  hung  upon  his  eye- 
lids; but  he  came  forward  manfully. 
[286] 


'Chapter  Twenty 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  you  could  never  in  your 
life  do  anything  that  would  make  harm.  You  were 
right  to  speak,  and  I  had  short  sight  to  fear, 
since  it  was  the  truth." 

"  But  why  did  you  fear  it  ?  " 

"  It  was  because — "  he  began,  and  hesitated. 

"  I  must  know  the  reason,"  she  urged.  "  I  must 
know  just  what  I've  done." 

"  It  was  because,"  he  repeated,  running  a  nervous 
hand  through  his  beard,  "  because  the  knowledge 
would  put  us  so  utterly  in  this  people's  power. 
Already  they  demand  more  than  wi  could  give  them ; 
now  they  can — " 

"They  can  do  what?"  she  asked  tremulously. 

His  eyes  rested  gently  on  her  blanched  and  strick- 
en face.  "  Nothing,  my  dear  lady,"  he  answered, 
swallowing  painfully.  "  Nothing  that  will  last.  I  am 
an  old  man.  I  have  seen  and  I  have — I  have  thought. 
And  I  tell  you  that  only  the  real  survives;  evil  ac- 
tions are  some  phantoms  that  disappear.  They  must 
not  trouble  us." 

"  That  is  a  high  plane,"  George  intervened,  and 
he  spoke  without  sarcasm.  "  To  put  it  roughly,  these 
people  have  been  asking  more  than  the  Harman 
[287] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

estate  is  worth;  that  was  on  the  strength  of  the 
woman's  claim  as  a  wife;  but  now  they  know  she  is 
not  one,  her  position  is  immensely  strengthened,  for 
she  has  only  to  go  before  the  nearest  Commissaire 
de  Police " 

"  Oh,  no ! "  Mrs.  Harman  cried  passionately.  "  I 
haven't  done  that!  You  mustn't  tell  me  I  have.  You 
mustn't!  " 

"  Never ! "  he  answered.  "  There  could  not  be  a 
greater  lie  than  to  say  you  have  done  it.  The  re- 
sponsibility is  with  the  wretched  and  vicious  boy 
who  brought  the  catastrophe  upon  himself.  But  don't 
you  see  that  you've  got  to  keep  out  of  it,  that  we've 
got  to  take  you  out  of  it  ?  " 

"  You  can't !  I'm  part  of  it ;  better  or  worse,  it's 
as  much  mine  as  his." 

"  No,  no ! "  cried  Miss  Elizabeth.  "  You  mustn't 
tell  us  that! "  Still  weeping,  she  sprang  up  and 
threw  her  arms  about  her  brother.  "  It's  too  hor- 
rible of  you " 

"  It  is  what  I  must  tell  you,"  Mrs.  Harman  said. 
"  My  separation  from  my  husband  is  over.  I  shall 
be  with  him  now  for " 

"  I  won't  listen  to  you ! "  Miss  Elizabeth  lifted 
[288] 


Chapter  Twenty 

her  wet  face  from  George's  shoulder,  and  there  was 
a  note  of  deep  anger  in  her  voice.  "  You  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about;  you  haven't  the  faint- 
est idea  of  what  a  hideous  situation  that  creature 
has  made  for  himself.  Don't  you  know  that  that 
awful  woman  was  right,  and  there  are  laws  in 
France?  When  she  finds  she  can't  get  out  of  him  all 
she  wants,  do  you  think  she's  going  to  let  him  off? 
I  suppose  she  struck  you  as  being  quite  the  sort 
who'd  prove  nobly  magnanimous!  Are  you  so  blind 
you  don't  see  exactly  what's  going  to  happen?  She'll 
ask  twice  as  much  now  as  she  did  before;  and 
the  moment  it's  clear  that  she  isn't  going  to  get 
it,  she'll  call  in  an  agent  of  police.  She'll  get  her 
money  in  a  separate  suit  and  send  him  to  prison 
to  do  it.  The  case  against  him  is  positive;  there 
isn't  a  shadow  of  hope  for  him.  You  talk  of  being 
with  him;  don't  you  see  how  preposterous  that  is? 
Do  you  imagine  they  encourage  family  housekeeping 
in  French  prisons?  " 

"  Oh,  come,  this  won't  do !  "  The  speaker  was  Cres- 
son   Ingle,  who  stepped  forward,  to  my   surprise; 
for  he  had  been  hovering  in  the  background  wearing 
an  expression  of  thorough  discomfort. 
[289] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  You're  going  much  too  far,"  he  said,  touching 
his  betrothed  upon  the  arm.  "  My  dear  Elizabeth, 
there  is  no  use  exaggerating;  the  case  is  unpleasant 
enough  just  as  it  is." 

"  In  what  have  I  exaggerated?  "  she  demanded. 

"Why,  I  knew  Larrabee  Harman,"  he  returned. 
"  I  knew  him  fairly  well.  I  went  as  far  as  Honolulu 
with  him,  when  he  and  some  of  his  heelers  started 
round  the  world;  and  I  remember  that  papers  were 
served  on  him  in  San  Francisco.  Mrs.  Harman  had 
made  her  application;  it  was  just  before  he  sailed. 
About  a  year  and  a  half  or  two  years  later  I  met 
him  again,  in  Paris.  He  was  in  pretty  bad  shape; 
seemed  hypnotised  by  this  Mariana  and  afraid  as 
death  of  her;  she  could  go  into  a  tantrum  that 
would  frighten  him  into  anything.  It  was  a  joke — 
down  along  the  line  of  the  all-night  dances  and  cafes 
— that  she  was  going  to  marry  him;  and  some  one 
told  me  afterward  that  she  claimed  to  have  brought 
it  about.  I  suppose  it's  true ;  but  there  is  no  question 
of  his  having  married  her  in  good  faith.  »He  believed 
that  the  divorce  had  been  granted;  he'd  offered  no 
opposition  to  it  whatever.  He  was  travelling  contin- 
ually, and  I  don't  think  he  knew  much  of  what  was 
[290] 


Chapter  Twenty 

going  on,  even  right  around  him,  most  of  the  time. 
He  began  with  cognac  and  absinthe  in  the  morning, 
you  know.  For  myself,  I  always  supposed  the  suit 
had  been  carried  through;  so  did  people  generally, 
I  think.  He'll  probably  have  to  stand  trial,  and  of 
course  he's  technically  guilty,  but  I  don't  believe 
he'd  be  convicted — though  I  must  say  it  would  have 
been  a  most  devilish  good  thing  for  him  if  he  could 
have  been  got  out  of  France  before  la  Mursiana 
heard  the  truth.  Then  he  could  have  made  terms 
with  her  safely  at  a  distance — she'd  have  been  power- 
less to  injure  him  and  would  have  precious  soon 
come  to  time  and  been  glad  to  take  whatever  he'd 
give  her.  Now,  I  suppose,  that's  impossible,  and 
they'll  arrest  him  if  he  tries  to  budge.  But  this 
talk  of  prison  and  all  that  is  nonsense,  my  dear 
Elizabeth!" 

"  You  admit  there  is  a  chance  of  it ! "  she  re- 
torted. 

"  I've  said  all  I  had  to  say,"  returned  Mr.  Ingle 
with  a  dubious  laugh.  "  And  if  you  don't  mind,  I  be- 
lieve I'll  wait  for  you  outside,  in  the  machine.  I 
want  to  look  at  the  gear-box." 

He  paused,  as  if  in  deference  to  possible  opposi- 
[291] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

tion,  and,  none  being  manifested,  went  hastily  from 
the  room  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  giving  me,  as  he 
carefully  closed  the  door,  a  glance  of  profound 
commiseration  over  his  shoulder. 

Miss  Elizabeth  had  taken  her  brother's  hand,  not 
with  the  effect  of  clinging  for  sympathy;  nor  had 
her  throwing  her  arms  about  him  produced  that 
effect;  one  could  as  easily  have  imagined  Brunhilda 
hiding  her  face  in  a  man's  coat-lapels.  George's 
sister  wept,  not  weakly:  she  was  on  the  defensive, 
but  not  for  herself. 

"  Does  the  fact  that  he  may  possibly  escape  going 
to  prison  " — she  addressed  her  cousin — "  make  his 
position  less  scandalous,  or  can  it  make  the  man 
himself  less  detestable  ?  " 

Mrs.  Harman  looked  at  her  steadily.  There  was 
a  long  and  sorrowful  pause. 

"  Nothing  is  changed,"  she  said  finally ;  her  eyes 
still  fixed  gravely  on  Miss  Elizabeth's. 

At  that,  the  other's  face  flamed  up,  and  she  ut- 
tered a  half-choked  exclamation.  "  Oh,"  she  cried — 
"  you've  fallen  in  love  with  playing  the  martyr ; 
it's  self-love !  You  see  yourself  in  the  role !  No  one 
on  earth  could  make  me  believe  you're  in  love  with 
[292] 


Chapter  Twenty 

this  degraded  imbecile — all  that's  left  of  the  wreck 
of  a  vicious  life !  It  isn't  that !  It's  because  you  want 
to  make  a  shining  example  of  yourself;  you  want 
to  get  down  on  your  knees  and  wash  off  the  vileness 
from  this  befouled  creature;  you  want " 

"  Madame !  "  Keredec  interrupted  tremendously, 
"  you  speak  out  of  no  knowledge !  "  He  leaned  toward 
her  across  the  table,  which  shook  under  the  weight 
of  his  arms.  "  There  is  no  vileness ;  no  one  who  is 
clean  remains  befouled  because  of  the  things  that 
are  gone." 

"They  do  not?"  She  laughed  hysterically,  and 
for  my  part,  I  sighed  in  despair — for  there  was  no 
stopping  him. 

"  They  do  not,  indeed !  Do  you  know  the  relation 
of  time  to  this  little  life  of  ours?  We  have  only  the 
present  moment ;  your  consciousness  of  that  is  your 
existence.  Your  knowledge  of  each  present  moment 
as  it  passes — and  it  passes  so  swiftly  that  each  word 
I  speak  now  overlaps  it — yet  it  is  all  we  have. 
For  all  the  rest,  for  what  has  gone  by  and  what  is 
yet  coming — that  has  no  real  existence;  it  is  all  a 
dream.  It  is  not  alive.  It  is  not !  It  is — nothing !  So 
the  soul  that  stands  clean  and  pure  to-day  is  clean 
[293] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

and  pure — and  that  is  all  there  is  to  say  about  that 
soul!" 

"  But  a  soul  with  evil  tendencies,"  Ward  began 
impatiently,  "  if  one  must  meet  you  on  your  own 
ground " 

"  Ha !  my  dear  sir,  those  evil  tendencies  would 
be  in  the  soiling  memories,  and  my  boy  is  free  from 
them." 

"  He  went  toward  all  that  was  soiling  before. 
Surely  you  can't  pretend  he  may  not  take  that  di- 
rection again  ?  " 

"  That,"  returned  the  professor  quickly,  "  is  his 
to  choose.  If  this  lady  can  be  with  him  now,  he  will 
choose  right." 

"  So !  n  cried  Miss  Elizabeth,  "  you  offer  her  the 
role  of  a  guide,  do  you?  First  she  is  to  be  his 
companion  through  a  trial  for  bigamy  in  a  French 
court,  and,  if  he  is  acquitted,  his  nurse,  teacher,  and 
moral  preceptor?  "  She  turned  swiftly  to  her  cousin. 
"  That's  your  conception  of  a  woman's  mission  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  any  mission,"  Mrs.  Harman  answered 

quietly.  "  I've  never  thought  about  missions ;  I  only 

know  I  belong  to  him;  that's   all  I  ever  thought 

about  it.  I  don't  pretend  to  explain  it,  or  make  it 

[294] 


Chapter  Twenty 

seem  reasonable.  And  when  I  met  him  again,  here, 
it  was — it  was — it  was  proved  to  me." 

"Proved?"  echoed  Miss  Elizabeth  incredulously. 

"  Yes ;  proved  as  certainly  as  the  sun  shining 
proves  that  it's  day." 

"Will  you  tell  us?" 

It  was  I  who  asked  the  question :  I  spoke  involun- 
tarily, but  she  did  not  seem  to  think  it  strange  that 
I  should  ask. 

"  Oh,  when  I  first  met  him,"  she  said  tremulously, 
"  I  was  frightened ;  but  it  was  not  he  who  frightened 
me — it  was  the  rush  of  my  own  feeling.  I  did  not 
know  what  I  felt,  but  I  thought  I  might  die,  and 
he  was  so  like  himself  as  I  had  first  known  him — but 
so  changed,  too;  there  was  something  so  wonderful 
about  him,  something  that  must  make  any  stranger 
feel  sorry  for  him,  and  yet  it  is  beautiful —  '  She 
stopped  for  a  moment  and  wiped  her  eyes,  then 
went  on  bravely :  "  And  the  next  day  he  came,  and 
waited  for  me — I  should  have  come  here  for  him 
if  he  hadn't — and  I  fell  in  with  the  mistake  he  had 
made  about  my  name.  You  see,  he'd  heard  I  was 
called  '  Madame  d'Armand,'  and  I  wanted  him  to 
keep  on  thinking  that,  for  I  thought  if  he  knew  I 
[295] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

was  Mrs.  Harman  he  might  find  out — "  She  paused, 
her  lip  beginning  to  tremble.  "  Oh,  don't  you  see 
why  I  didn't  want  him  to  know?  I  didn't  want  him 
to  suffer  as  he  would — as  he  does  now,  poor  child ! — 
but  most  of  all  I  wanted—  -I  wanted  to  see  if  he 
would  fall  in  love  with  me  again !  I  kept  him  from 
knowing,  because,  if  he  thought  I  was  a  stranger, 
and  the  same  thing  happened  again — his  caring  for 
me,  I  mean — "  She  had  begun  to  weep  now,  freely 
and  openly,  but  not  from  grief.  "  Oh ! "  she  cried, 
"  don't  you  see  how  it's  all  proven  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  see  how  it  has  deluded  you ! "  said  Miss  Eliza- 
beth vehemently.  "  I  see  what  a  rose-light  it  has 
thrown  about  this  creature;  but  it  won't  last,  thank 
God !  any  more  than  it  did  the  other  time.  The  thing 
is  for  you  to  come  to  your  senses  before " 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  I  have  come  to  them  at  last  and 
for  ever ! "  The  words  rang  full  and  strong,  though 
she  was  white  and  shaking,  and  heavy  tears  filled 
her  eyes.  "  I  know  what  I  am  doing  now,  if  I  never 
knew  before .' " 

"  You  never  did  know — "  Miss  Ward  began,  but 
George  stopped  her. 

"  Elizabeth !  "  he  said  quickly.  "  We  mustn't  go  on 
[296] 


Chapter  Twenty 

like  this;  it's  more  than  any  of  us  can  bear.  Come, 
let's  get  out  into  the  air;  let's  get  back  to  Quesnay. 
We'll  have  Ingle  drive  us  around  the  longer  way,  by 
the  sea."  He  turned  to  his  cousin.  "  Louise,  you'll 
come  now?  If  not,  we'll  have  to  stay  here  with  you." 
"  I'll  come,"  she  answered,  trying  bravely  to  stop 
the  tears  that  kept  rising  in  spite  of  her ;  "  if  you'll 
wait  till " — and  suddenly  she  flashed  through  them 
a  smile  so  charming  that  my  heart  ached  the  harder 
for  George — "  till  I  can  stop  crying !  " 


[297] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

MR.  EARL  PERCY  and  I  sat  opposite  each 
other  at  dinner  that  evening.  Perhaps, 
for  clarity's  sake,  I  should  add  that 
though  we  faced  each  other,  and,  indeed,  eyed  each 
other  solemnly  at  intervals,  we  partook  not  of  the 
same  repast,  having  each  his  own  table;  his  being 
set  in  the  garden  at  his  constant  station  near  the 
gallery  steps,  and  mine,  some  fifty  feet  distant,  upon 
my  own  veranda,  but  moved  out  from  behind  the 
honeysuckle  screen,  for  I  sat  alone  and  the  night 
was  warm. 

To  analyse  my  impression  of  Mr.  Percy's  glances, 
I  cannot  conscientiously  record  that  I  found  favour 
in  his  eyes.  For  one  thing,  I  fear  he  may  not  have 
recalled  to  his  bosom  a  clarion  sentiment  (which 
doubtless  he  had  ofttimes  cheered  from  his  native 
gallery  in  softer  years)  :  the  honourable  declaration 
that  many  an  honest  heart  beats  beneath  a  poor 
man's  coat.  As  for  his  own  attire,  he  was  even  as 
[298] 


Chapter  Twenty-one 

the  lilies  of  Quesnay;  that  is  to  say,  I  beheld  upon 
him  the  same  formation  of  tie  that  I  had  seen  there, 
the  same  sensuous  beauty  of  the  state  waistcoat, 
though  I  think  that  his  buttons  were,  if  anything, 
somewhat  spicier  than  those  which  had  awed  me  at 
the  chateau.  And  when  we  simultaneously  reached 
the  fragrant  hour  of  coffee,  the  cigarette  case  that 
glittered  in  his  hand  was  one  for  which  some  lady- 
friend  of  his  (I  knew  intuitively)  must  have  given 
her  All — and  then  been  left  in  debt. 

Amedee  had  served  us  both;  Glouglou,  as  afore- 
time, attending  the  silent  "  Grande  Suite,"  where 
the  curtains  were  once  more  tightly  drawn.  Mon- 
sieur Rameau  dined  with  his  client  in  her  own  salon, 
evidently ;  at  least,  Victorine,  the  femme  de  chambre, 
passed  to  and  from  the  kitchen  in  that  direction, 
bearing  laden  trays.  When  Mr.  Percy's  cigarette 
had  been  lighted,  hesitation  marked  the  manner  of 
our  maitre  d'hotel;  plainly  he  wavered,  but  finally 
old  custom  prevailed;  abandoning  the  cigarette,  he 
chose  the  cigar,  and,  hastily  clearing  my  fashionable 
opponent's  table,  approached  the  pavilion  with  his 
most  conversational  face. 

I  greeted  him  indifferently,  but  with  hidden  pleas- 
[299] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

ure,  for  my  soul  (if  Keredec  is  right  and  I  have 
one)  lay  sorrowing.  I  needed  relief,  and  whatever 
else  Amedee  was,  he  was  always  that.  I  spoke 
first: 

"  Amedee,  how  long  a  walk  is  it  from  Quesnay  to 
Pere  Baudry's?" 

"  Monsieur,  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  for 
a  good  walker,  one  might  say." 

"  A  long  way  for  Jean  Ferret  to  go  for  a  cup  of 
cider,"  I  remarked  musingly. 

"  Eh?  But  why  should  he?  "  asked  Amedee  blankly. 

"  Why  indeed  ?  Surely  even  a  Norman  gardener 
lives  for  more  than  cider!  You  usually  meet  him 
there  about  noon,  I  believe?" 

Methought  he  had  the  grace  to  blush,  though 
there  is  an  everlasting  doubt  in  my  mind  that  it 
may  have  been  the  colour  of  the  candle-shade  pro- 
ducing that  illusion.  It  was  a  strange  thing  to  see, 
at  all  events,  and,  taking  it  for  a  physiological  fact 
at  the  time,  I  let  my  willing  eyes  linger  upon  it  as 
long  as  it  (or  its  appearance)  was  upon  him. 

"  You  were  a  little  earlier  than  usual  to-day," 
I  continued  finally,  full  of  the  marvel. 

"  Monsieur?  "  He  was  wholly  blank  again. 
[800] 


Chapter  Twenty-one 

"  Weren't  you  there  about  eleven  ?  Didn't  you  go 
about  two  hours  after  Mr.  Ward  and  his  friends 
left  here?" 

He  scratched  his  head.  "  I  believe  I  had  an  errand 
in  that  direction.  Eh?  Yes,  I  remember.  Truly,  I 
think  it  so  happened." 

"And  you  found  Jean  Ferret  there?" 

"  Where,  monsieur  ?  " 

"At  Pere  Baudry's." 

"  No,  monsieur." 

"What?"  I  exclaimed. 

"  No,  monsieur."  He  was  firm,  somewhat  reproach- 
ful. 

"  You  didn't  see  Jean  Ferret  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Monsieur?  " 

"Amedee!" 

"Eh,  but  I  did  not  find  him  at  Pere  Baudry's! 
It  may  have  happened  that  I  stopped  there,  but  he 
did  not  come  until  some  time  after." 

"  After  you  had  gone  away  from  Pere  Baudry's, 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  No,  monsieur ;   after  I   arrived  there.   Truly." 

"  Now  we  have  it !  And  you  gave  him  the  news 
of  all  that  had  happened  here?  " 
[301] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Monsieur !  " 

A  world — no,  a  constellation,  a  universe! — of  re- 
proach was  in  the  word. 

"  I  retract  the  accusation,"  I  said  promptly.  "  I 
meant  something  else." 

"  Upon  everything  that  takes  place  at  our  hotel 
here,  I  am  silent  to  all  the  world." 

"  As  the  grave !  "  I  said  with  enthusiasm.  "  Truly 
— that  is  a  thing  well  known.  But  Jean  Ferret, 
then?  He  is  not  so  discreet;  I  have  suspected  that 
you  are  in  his  confidence.  At  times  you  have  even 
hinted  as  much.  Can  you  tell  me  if  he  saw  the 
automobile  of  Monsieur  Ingle  when  it  came  back 
to  the  chateau  after  leaving  here?  " 

"  It  had  arrived  the  moment  before  he  departed." 

"  Quite  so!  I  understand,"  said  I. 

"  He  related  to  me  that  Mademoiselle  Ward  had 
the  appearance  of  agitation,  and  Madame  d'Armand 
that  of  pallor,  which  was  also  the  case  with  Monsieur 
Ward." 

"  Therefore,"  I  said,  "  Jean  Ferret  ran  all  the  way 
to  Pere  Baudry's  to  learn  from  you  the  reason  for 
this  agitation  and  this  pallor?  " 

"  But,  monsieur " 

[302] 


Chapter  Twenty-one 

"  I  retract  again !  "  I  cut  him  off — to  save  time. 
"What  other  news  had  he?" 

There  came  a  gleam  into  his  small,  infolded  eyes, 
a  tiny  glitter  reflecting  the  mellow  candle-light,  but 
changing  it,  in  that  reflection,  to  a  cold  and  sinister 
point  of  steel.  It  should  have  warned  me,  but,  as 
he  paused,  I  repeated  my  question. 

"  Monsieur,  people  say  everything,"  he  answered, 
frowning  as  if  deploring  what  they  said  in  some 
secret,  particular  instance.  "  The  world  is  full  of 
idle  gossipers,  tale-bearers,  spreaders  of  scandal ! 
And,  though  I  speak  with  perfect  respect,  all  the 
people  at  the  chateau  are  not  perfect  in  such 
ways." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  domestics  ?  " 

"  The  visitors  !  " 

"What  do  they  say?" 

"  Eh,  well,  then,  they  say — but  no !  "  He  contrived 
a  masterly  pretence  of  pained  reluctance.  "  I  can- 
not  " 

"  Speak  out,"  I  commanded,  piqued  by  his  shilly- 
shallying. "What  do  they  say?" 

"  Monsieur,  it  is  about  " — he  shifted  his  weight 
from  one  leg  to  the  other — "  it  is  about — about  that 
[303] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

beautiful  Mademoiselle  Elliott  who  sometimes  comes 
here." 

This  was  so  far  from  what  I  had  expected  that  I 
was  surprised  into  a  slight  change  of  attitude,  which 
all  too  plainly  gratified  him,  though  he  made  an 
effort  to  conceal  it.  "  Well,"  I  said  uneasily,  "  what 
do  they  find  to  say  of  Mademoiselle  Elliott  ?  " 

"  They  say  that  her  painting  is  only  a  ruse  to 
see  monsieur." 

"  To  see  Monsieur  Saffren,  yes." 

"  But,  no !  "  he  cried.  "  That  is  not " 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  I  assured  him  calmly.  "  As  you  know, 
Monsieur  Saffren  is  very,  very  handsome,  and  Ma- 
demoiselle Elliott,  being  a  painter,  is  naturally  anx- 
ious to  look  at  him  from  time  to  time." 

"  You  are  sure  ?  "  he  said  wistfully,  even  plain- 
tively. "  That  is  not  the  meaning  Jean  Ferret  put 
upon  it." 

"  He  was  mistaken." 

"  It  may  be,  it  may  be,"  he  returned,  greatly 
crestfallen,  picking  up  his  tray  and  preparing  to 
go.  "  But  Jean  Ferret  was  very  positive." 

"  And  I  am  even  more  so !  " 

"  Then     that     malicious     maid    of    Mademoiselle 
[304] 


Chapter  Twenty-one 

Ward's  was  mistaken  also,"  he  sighed,  "  when  she 
said  that  now  a  marriage  is  to  take  place  between 
Mademoiselle  Ward  and  Monsieur  Ingle " 

"  Proceed,"  I  bade  him. 

He  moved  a  few  feet  nearer  the  kitchen.  "  The 
malicious  woman  said  to  Jean  Ferret — "  He  paused 
and  coughed.  "  It  was  in  reference  to  those  Italian 
jewels  monsieur  used  to  send ' 

"What  about  them?"  I  asked  ominously. 

"  The  woman  says  that  Mademoiselle  Ward — " 
he  increased  the  distance  between  us — "  that  now 
she  should  give  them  to  Mademoiselle  Elliott!  Good 
night,  monsieur ! " 

His  entrance  into  the  kitchen  was  precipitate.  I 
sank  down  again  into  the  wicker  chair  (from  which 
I  had  hastily  risen)  and  contemplated  the  stars.  But 
the  short  reverie  into  which  I  then  fell  was  inter- 
rupted by  Mr.  Percy,  who,  sauntering  leisurely  about 
the  garden,  paused  to  address  me. 

"  You  folks  thinks  you  was  all  to  the  gud,  gittin* 
them  trunks  off,  what  ?  " 

"  You  speak  in  mysterious  numbers,"  I  returned, 
having  no  comprehension  of  his  meaning. 

"  I  suppose  you  don'  know  nothin'  about  it,"  he 
[305] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

laughed  satirically.  "  You  didn'  go  over  to  Lisieux 
'saft'noon  to  ship  'em?  Oh,  no,  not  you!" 

"  I  went  for  a  long  walk  this  afternoon,  Mr.  Percy. 
Naturally,  I  couldn't  have  walked  so  far  as  Lisieux 
and  back." 

"  Luk  here,  m'friend,"  he  said  sharply — "  I  reco'- 
nise  'at  you're  tryin'  t'  play  your  own  hand,  but 
I  ast  you  as  man  to  man :  Do  you  think  you  got 
any  chanst  t'  git  that  feller  off  t'  Paris  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  rain  to-night  ? "  I  in- 
quired. 

The  light  of  a  reflecting  lamp  which  hung  on 
the  wall  near  the  archway  enabled  me  to  perceive  a 
bitter  frown  upon  his  forehead.  "  When  a  gen'leman 
asts  a  question  as  a  gen'leman,"  he  said,  his  voice 
expressing  a  noble  pathos,  "  I  can't  see  no  call  for 
no  other  gen'leman  to  go  an'  play  the  smart  Aleck 
and  not  answer  him." 

In  simple  dignity  he  turned  his  back  upon  me 
and  strolled  to  the  other  end  of  the  courtyard, 
leaving  me  to  the  renewal  of  my  reverie. 

It  was  not  a  happy  one. 

My  friends — old  and  new — I  saw  inextricably 
caught  in  a  tangle  of  cross-purposes,  miserably  and 
[306] 


Chapter  Twenty-one 

hopelessly  involved  in  a  situation  for  which  I  could 
predict  no  possible  relief.  I  was  able  to  understand 
now  the  beauty  as  well  as  the  madness  of  Keredec's 
plan;  and  I  had  told  him  so  (after  the  departure 
of  the  Quesnay  party),  asking  his  pardon  for  my 
brusquerie  of  the  morning.  But  the  towering  edifice 
his  hopes  had  erected  was  now  tumbled  about  his 
ears :  he  had  failed  to  elude  the  Mursiana.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  of  her  absolute  control  of  the  situ- 
ation. That  was  evident  in  the  every  step  of  the  youth 
now  confidently  parading  before  me. 

Following  his  active  stride  with  my  eye,  I  observed 
him  in  the  act  of  saluting,  with  a  gracious  nod  of 
his  bare  head,  some  one,  invisible  to  me,  who  was 
approaching  from  the  road.  Immediately  after — and 
altogether  with  the  air  of  a  person  merely  "  happen- 
ing in  " — a  slight  figure,  clad  in  a  long  coat,  a  short 
skirt,  and  a  broad-brimmed,  veil-bound  brown  hat, 
sauntered  casually  through  the  archway  and  came 
into  full  view  in  the  light  of  the  reflector. 

I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  started  toward  her,  ut- 
tering an  exclamation  which  I  was  unable  to  stifle, 
though  I  tried  to. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Percy,"  she  said  cheerily. 
[307] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  It's  the  most  exuberant  night.  You're  quite  hearty, 
I  hope?" 

"  Takin*  a  walk,  I  see,  little  lady,"  he  observed 
with  genial  patronage. 

"Oh,  not  just  for  that,"  she  returned.  "It's 
more  to  see  him."  She  nodded  to  me,  and,  as  I  reached 
her,  carelessly  gave  me  her  left  hand.  "  You  know 
I'm  studying  with  him,"  she  continued  to  Mr.  Percy, 
exhibiting  a  sketch-book  under  her  arm.  "  I  dropped 
over  to  get  a  criticism." 

"  Oh,  drawin'-lessons  ?  "  said  Mr.  Percy  tolerant- 
ly. "  Well,  don'  lemme  interrup'  ye." 

He  moved  as  if  to  withdraw  toward  the  steps, 
but  she  detained  him  with  a  question.  "  You're 
spending  the  rest  of  the  summer  here  ?  " 

"  That  depends,"  he  answered  tersely. 

"  I  hear  you  have  some  passionately  interesting 
friends." 

"  Where  did  you  hear  that  ?  " 

"  Ah,  don't  you  know  ?  "  she  responded  commiser- 
atingly.  "  This  is  the  most  scandalously  gossipy 
neighbourhood  in  France.  My  dear  young  man,  every 
one  from  here  to  Timbuctu  knows  all  about  it  by  this 
time!" 

[308] 


Chapter  Twenty-one 

"All  about  what?" 

"  About  the  excitement  you're  such  a  'valuable 
part  of;  about  your  wonderful  Spanish  friend  and 
how  she  claims  the  strange  young  man  here  for  her 
husband." 

"  They'll  know  more'n  that,  I  expec',"  he  re- 
turned with  a  side  glance  at  me,  "  before  very 
long." 

"  Every  one  thinks  7  am  so  interesting,"  she  rat- 
tled on  artlessly,  "  because  I  happened  to  meet  you 
in  the  woods.  I've  held  quite  a  levee  all  day.  In  a 
reflected  way  it  makes  a  heroine  of  me,  you  see, 
because  you  are  one  of  the  very  most  prominent 
figures  in  it  all.  I  hope  you  won't  think  I've  been 
too  bold,"  she  pursued  anxiously,  "  in  claiming  that 
I  really  am  one  of  your  acquaintances  ?  " 

"  That'll  be  all  right,"  he  politely  assured  her. 

"  I  am  so  glad."  Her  laughter  rang  out  gaily. 
"  Because  I've  been  talking  about  you  as  if  we  were 
the  oldest  friends,  and  I'd  hate  to  have  them  find 
me  out.  I've  told  them  everything — about  your 
appearance  you  see,  and  how  your  hair  was  parted, 
and  how  you  were  dressed,  and — 

"  Luk  here,"  he  interrupted,  suddenly  discharging 
[309] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

his  Bowery  laugh,  "  did  you  tell  'em  how  he  was 
dressed?  "  He  pointed  a  jocular  finger  at  me.  "  That 
"wud  V  made  a  hit ! " 

"  No ;  we  weren't  talking  of  him." 

"Why  not?  He's  in  it,  too.  Bullieve  me,  he  thinks 
he  is!" 

"  In  the  excitement,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Right ! "  said  Mr.  Percy  amiably.  "  He  goes 
round  holdin'  Rip  Van  Winkle  Keredec's  hand  when 
the  ole  man's  cryin' ;  helpin*  him  sneak  his  trunks 
off  t'  Paris — playin'  the  hired  man  gener'ly.  Oh, 
he  thinks  he's  quite  the  boy,  in  this  trouble ! " 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  a  small  part,"  she  returned, 
"  compared  to  yours." 

"  Oh,  I  hold  my  end  up,  I  guess." 

"  I  should  think  you'd  be  so  worn  out  and  sleepy 
you  couldn't  hold  your  head  up !  " 

"Who?  Me?  Not  t'-night,  m'little  friend.  I  tuk 
my  sleep  's  aft'noon  and  let  Rameau  do  the  Sher- 
lock a  little  while." 

She  gazed  upon  him  with  unconcealed  admiration. 
"  You  are  wonderful,"  she  sighed  faintly,  and  "  Won- 
derful! "  she  breathed  again.  "  How  prosaic  are 
drawing-lessons,"  she  continued,  touching  my  arm 
[310] 


Chapter  Twenty-one 

and  moving   with  me   toward   the  pavilion,   "  after 
listening  to  a  man  of  action  like  that !  " 

Mr.  Percy,  establishing  himself  comfortably  in  a 
garden  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  gallery  steps,  was 
heard  to  utter  a  short  cough  as  he  renewed  the 
light  of  his  cigarette. 

My  visitor  paused  upon  my  veranda,  humming, 
"  Quand  1'Amour  Meurt "  while  I  went  within  and 
lit  a  lamp.  "Shall  I  bring  the  light  out  there?" 
I  asked,  but,  turning,  found  that  she  was  already  in 
the  room. 

"  The  sketch-book  is  my  duenna,"  she  said,  sinking 
into  a  chair  upon  one  side  of  the  centre  table,  upon 
which  I  placed  the  lamp.  "  Lessons  are  unquestion- 
able, at  any  place  or  time.  Behold  the  beautiful 
posies ! "  She  spread  the  book  open  on  the  table 
between  us,  as  I  seated  myself  opposite  her,  re- 
vealing some  antique  coloured  smudges  of  flowers. 
"  Elegancies  of  Eighteen-Forty !  Isn't  that  a  sur- 
vival of  the  period  when  young  ladies  had  4  accom- 
plishments,' though!  I  found  it  at  the  chateau 
and » 

"  Never  mind,"  I  said.  "  Don't  you  know  that  you 
[311] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

can't  j«mble  over  the  country  alone  at  this  time  of 
night?" 

"  If  you  speak  any  louder,"  she  said,  with  some 
urgency  of  manner,  "  you'll  be  *  hopelessly  com- 
promised socially,'  as  Mrs.  Alderman  McGinnis  and 
the  Duchess  of  Gwythyl-Corners  say  " — she  directed 
my  glance,  by  one  of  her  own,  through  the  open 
door  to  Mr.  Percy — "  because  he'll  hear  you  and 
know  that  the  sketch-book  was  only  a  shallow  pre- 
text of  mine  to  see  you.  Do  be  a  little  manfully 
self-contained,  or  you'll  get  us  talked  about!  And 
as  for  *  this  time  of  night,'  I  believe  it's  almost 
half  past  nine." 

"  Does  Miss  Ward  know " 

"  Do  you  think  it  likely  ?  One  of  the  most  con- 
venient things  about  a  chateau  is  the  number  of  ways 
to  get  out  of  it  without  being  seen.  I  had  a  choice 
of  eight.  So  I  4  suffered  fearfully  from  neuralgia,' 
dined  in  my  own  room,  and  sped  through  the  woods 
to  my  honest  forester."  She  nodded  brightly. 
"That's  you!" 

"  You  weren't  afraid  to  come  through  the  woods 
alone  ?  "  I  asked,  uncomfortably  conscious  that  her 
gaiety  met  a  dull  response  from  me. 
[312] 


Chapter  Twenty-one 

"  No." 

"  But  if  Miss  Ward  finds  that  you're  not  at  the 
chateau " 

"  She  won't ;  she  thinks  I'm  asleep.  She  brought 
me  up  a  sleeping-powder  herself." 

"She  thinks  you  took  it?" 

"  She  knows  I  did,"  said  Miss  Elliott.  "  I'm  full 
of  it !  And  that  will  be  the  reason — if  you  notice 
that  I'm  particularly  nervous  or  excited." 

"  You  seem  all  of  that,"  I  said,  looking  at  her 
eyes,  which  were  very  wide  and  very  brilliant.  "  How- 
ever, I  believe  you  always  do." 

"  Ah ! "  she  smiled.  "  I  knew  you  thought  me 
atrocious  from  the  first.  You  find  myriads  of  objec- 
tions to  me,  don't  you?  " 

I  had  forgotten  to  look  away  from  her  eyes,  and 
I  kept  on  forgetting.  (The  same  thing  had  happened 
several  times  lately;  and  each  time,  by  a  somewhat 
painful  coincidence,  I  remembered  my  age  at  pre- 
cisely the  instant  I  remembered  to  look  away.) 
"  Dazzling  "  is  a  good  old-fashioned  word  for  eyes 
like  hers;  at  least  it  might  define  their  effect  on 
me. 

"  If  I  did  manage  to  object  to  you,"  I  said 
[313] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

slowly,  "  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  me — wouldn't 
it?" 

"  Oh,  I've  won! "  she  cried. 

"Won?"  I  echoed. 

"  Yes.  I  laid  a  wager  with  myself  that  I'd  have 
a  pretty  speech  from  you  before  I  went  out  of  your 
life  " — she  checked  a  laugh,  and  concluded  thrilling- 
ly — "  forever !  I  leave  Quesnay  to-morrow !  " 

"  Your  father  has  returned  from  America  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  she  murmured.  "  I'll  be  quite  at 
the  world's  mercy.  I  must  go  up  to  Paris  and  re- 
tire from  public  life  until  he  does  come.  I  shall 
take  the  vows — in  some  obscure  but  respectable 
pension" 

"  You  can't  endure  the  life  at  the  chateau  any 
longer?  " 

"  It  won't  endure  me  any  longer.  If  I  shouldn't 
go  to-morrow  I'd  be  put  out,  I  think — after  to- 
night ! " 

"  But  you  intimated  that  no  one  would  know  about 
to-night ! " 

"  The  night  isn't  over  yet,"  she  replied  enig- 
matically. 

"  It  almost   is — for   you,"   I   said ;   "  because   in 
[314] 


Chapter  Twenty-one 

ten  minutes  I  shall  take  you  back  to  the  chateau 
gates." 

She  offered  110  comment  on  this  prophecy,  but 
gazed  at  me  thoughtfully  and  seriously  for  several 
moments.  "  I  suppose  you  can  imagine,"  she  said,  in 
a  tone  that  threatened  to  become  tremulous,  "  what 
sort  of  an  afternoon  we've  been  having  up  there." 

"  Has  it  been — "  I  began. 

"  Oh,  heart-breaking !  Louise  came  to  my  room 
as  soon  as  they  got  back  from  here,  this  morning, 
and  told  me  the  whole  pitiful  story.  But  they  didn't 
let  her  stay  there  long,  poor  woman ! " 

"They?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  Elizabeth  and  her  brother.  They've  been 
at  her  all  afternoon — off  and  on." 

"To  do  what?" 

"  To  '  save  herself,'  so  they  call  it.  They're  in- 
sisting that  she  must  not  see  her  poor  husband 
again.  They're  determined  she  sha'n't." 

"  But   George   wouldn't  worry  her,"   I   objected. 

"Oh,  wouldn't  he?"  The  girl  laughed  sadly.  "I 

don't  suppose  he  could  help  it,  he's  in  such  a  state 

himself,  but  between  him  and  Elizabeth  it's  hard  to 

see  how  poor  Mrs.  Harman  lived  through  the  day." 

[315] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Well,"  I  said  slowly,  " I  don't  see  that  they're 
not  right.  She  ought  to  be  kept  out  of  all  this 
as  much  as  possible;  and  if  her  husband  has  to  go 
through  a  trial " 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  something,"  Miss  Elliott  in- 
terrupted. "  How  much  do  you  like  Mr.  Ward?  " 

"  He's  an  old  friend.  I  suppose  I  like  my  old 
friends  in  about  the  same  way  that  other  people 
like  theirs." 

"  How  much  do  you  like  Mr.  Saffren — I  mean 
Mr.  Harman  ?  " 

"Oh,  that!"  I  groaned.  "If  I  could  still  call 
him  '  Oliver  Saffren,'  if  I  could  still  think  of  him 
as  *  Oliver  Saffren,'  it  would  be  easy  to  answer. 
I  never  was  so  *  drawn  '  to  a  man  in  my  life  before. 
But  when  I  think  of  him  as  Larrabee  Harman,  I 
am  full  of  misgivings." 

"  Louise  isn't,"  she  put  in  eagerly,  and  with  some- 
thing oddly  like  the  manner  of  argument.  "  His 
wife  isn't!" 

"  Oh,  I  know.  Perhaps  one  reason  is  that  she 
never  saw  him  at  quite  his  worst.  I  did.  I  had  only 
two  glimpses  of  him — of  the  briefest — but  they  in- 
spired me  with  such  a  depth  of  dislike  that  I  can't 
[316] 


Chapter  Twenty-one 

tell  you  how  painful  it  was  to  discover  that  *  Oliver 
Saffren  ' — this  strange,  pathetic,  attractive  friend 
of  mine — is  the  same  man." 

"  Oh,  but  he  isn't !  "  she  exclaimed  quickly. 

"  Keredec  says  he  is,"  I  laughed  helplessly. 

"  So  does  Louise,"  returned  Miss  Elliott,  disdain- 
ing consistency  in  her  eagerness.  "  And  she's  right — 
and  she  cares  more  for  him  than  she  ever  did ! " 

"  I  suppose  she  does." 

"  Are  you —  "  the  girl  began,  then  stopped  for  a 
moment,  looking  at  me  steadily.  "  Aren't  you  a 
little  in  love  with  her  ?  " 

"Yes,"  I  answered  honestly.  "Aren't  you?" 

"  That 's  what  I  wanted  to  know!"  she  said;  and 
as  she  turned  a  page  in  the  sketch-book  for  the 
benefit  of  Mr.  Percy,  I  saw  that  her  hand  had  be- 
gun to  tremble. 

"  Why  ?  "  I  asked,  leaning  toward  her  across  the 
table. 

"  Because,  if  she  were  involved  in  some  undertaking 
— something  that,  if  it  went  wrong,  would  endanger 
her  happiness  and,  I  think,  even  her  life — for  it 
might  actually  kill  her  if  she  failed,  and  brought 

on  a  worse  catastrophe " 

[317] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

"  Yes  ?  "  I  said  anxiously,  as  she  paused  again. 

"You'd  help  her?"  she  said. 

"  I  would  indeed,"  I  assented  earnestly.  "  I  told 
her  once  I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  her." 

"  Even  if  it  involved  something  that  George  Ward 
might  never  forgive  you  for?  " 

"  I  said,  *  anything  in  the  world,'  "  I  returned, 
perhaps  a  little  huskily.  "  I  meant  all  of  that.  If 
there  is  anything  she  wants  me  to  do,  I  shall  do  it." 

She  gave  a  low  cry  of  triumph,  but  immediately 
checked  it.  Then  she  leaned  far  over  the  table,  her 
face  close  above  the  book,  and,  tracing  the  outline 
of  an  uncertain  lily  with  her  small,  brown-gloved 
forefinger,  as  though  she  were  consulting  me  on 
the  drawing,  "  I  wasn't  afraid  to  come  through  the 
woods  alone,"  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  because 
I  wasn't  alone.  Louise  came  with  me." 

"What?"  I  gasped.  "Where  is   she?" 

"  At  the  Baudry  cottage  down  the  road.  They 
won't  miss  her  at  the  chateau  until  morning;  I 
locked  her  door  on  the  outside,  and  if  they  go  to 
bother  her  again — though  I  don't  think  they  will — 
they'll  believe  she's  fastened  it  on  the  inside  and  is 
asleep.  She  managed  to  get  a  note  to  Keredec  late 
[318] 


Chapter  Twenty-one 

this  afternoon;  it  explained  everything,  and  he  had 
some  trunks  carried  out  the  rear  gate  of  the  inn 
and  carted  over  to  Lisieux  to  be  shipped  to  Paris 
from  there.  It  is  to  be  supposed — or  hoped,  at  least — 
that  this  woman  and  her  people  will  believe  that 
means  Professor  Keredec  and  Mr.  Harman  will  try 
to  get  to  Paris  in  the  same  way." 

"  So,"  I  said,  "  that's  what  Percy  meant  about 
the  trunks.  I  didn't  understand." 

"  He's  on  watch,  you  see,"  she  continued,  turning 
a  page  to  another  drawing.  "  He  means  to  sit  up  all 
night,  or  he  wouldn't  have  slept  this  afternoon.  He's 
not  precisely  the  kind  to  be  in  the  habit  of  afternoon 
naps — Mr.  Percy !  "  She  laughed  nervously.  "  That's 
why  it's  almost  absolutely  necessary  for  us  to  have  you. 
If  we  have — the  thing  is  so  simple  that  it's  certain." 

"  If  you  have  me  for  what  ?  "   I   asked. 

"  If  you'll  help  " — and,  as  she  looked  up,  her  eyes, 
now  very  close  to  mine,  were  dazzling  indeed — "  I'll 
adore  you  for  ever  and  ever!  Oh,  much  longer  than 
you'd  like  me  to !  " 

"  You  mean  she's  going  to ' 

"  I  mean  that  she's  going  to  run  away  with  him 
again,"  she  whispered. 

[319] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO 

A~^  midnight  there  was  no  mistaking  the  pal- 
pable uneasiness  with  which  Mr.  Percy, 
faithful  sentry,  regarded  the  behaviour  of 
Miss  Elliott  and  myself  as  we  sat  conversing  upon 
the  veranda  of  the  pavilion.  It  was  not  fear  for  the 
security  of  his  prisoner  which  troubled  him,  but 
the  unseemliness  of  the  young  woman's  persistence 
in  remaining  to  this  hour  under  an  espionage  no 
more  matronly  than  that  of  a  sketch-book  abandoned 
on  the  table  when  we  had  come  out  to  the  open. 
The  youth  had  veiled  his  splendours  with  more  splen- 
dour: a  long  overcoat  of  so  glorious  a  plaid  it  paled 
the  planets  above  us;  and  he  wandered  restlessly 
about  the  garden  in  this  refulgence,  glancing  at  us 
now  and  then  with  what,  in  spite  of  the  insufficient 
revelation  of  the  starlight,  we  both  recognised  as  a 
chilling  disapproval.  The  lights  of  the  inn  were  all 
[320] 


Chapter  Twenty-two 

out ;  the  courtyard  was  dark.  The  Spanish  woman 
and  Monsieur  Rameau  had  made  their  appearance 
for  a  moment,  half  an  hour  earlier,  to  exchange  a 
word  with  their  fellow  vigilant,  and,  soon  after,  the 
extinguishing  of  the  lamps  in  their  respective  apart- 
ments denoted  their  retirement  for  the  night.  In  the 
"  Grande  Suite "  all  had  been  dark  and  silent  for 
an  hour.  About  the  whole  place  the  only  sign  of 
life,  aside  from  those  signs  furnished  by  our  three 
selves,  was  a  rhythmical  sound  from  an  open  win- 
dow near  the  kitchen,  where  incontrovertibly  slum- 
bered our  maitre  d'hotel  after  the  cares  of  the 
day. 

Upon  the  occasion  of  our  forest  meeting  Mr.  Percy 
had  signified  his  desire  to  hear  some  talk  of  Art. 
I  think  he  had  his  fill  to-night — and  more;  for  that 
was  the  subject  chosen  by  my  dashing  companion, 
and  vivaciously  exploited  until  our  awaited  hour 
was  at  hand.  Heaven  knows  what  nonsense  I  prattled, 
I  do  not;  I  do  not  think  I  knew  at  the  time.  I 
talked  mechanically,  trying  hard  not  to  betray  my 
increasing  excitement. 

Under  cover  of  this  traduction  of  the  Muse  I 
served,  I  kept  going  over  and  over  the  details  of 
[321] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

Louise  Harman's  plan,  as  the  girl  beside  me  had 
outlined  it,  bending  above  the  smudgy  sketch-book. 
"  To  make  them  think  the  flight  is  for  Paris,"  she 
had  urged,  "  to  Paris  by  way  of  Lisieux.  To  make 
that  man  yonder  believe  that  it  is  toward  Lisieux, 
while  they  turn  at  the  crossroads,  and  drive  across 
the  country  to  Trouville  for  the  morning  boat  to 
Havre." 

It  was  simple;  that  was  its  great  virtue.  If  they 
were  well  started,  they  were  safe;  and  well  started 
meant  only  that  Larrabee  Harman  should  leave  the 
inn  without  an  alarm,  for  an  alarm  sounded  too 
soon  meant  "  racing  and  chasing  on  Canoby  Lea," 
before  they  could  get  out  of  the  immediate  neighbour- 
hood. But  with  two  hours'  start,  and  the  pursuit 
spending  most  of  its  energy  in  the  wrong  direction 
— that  is,  toward  Lisieux  and  Paris — they  would 
be  on  the  deck  of  the  French-Canadian  liner  to- 
morrow noon,  sailing  out  of  the  harbour  of  Le 
Havre,  with  nothing  but  the  Atlantic  Ocean  between 
them  and  the  St.  Lawrence. 

I  thought  of  the  woman  who  dared  this  flight  for 
her  lover,  of  the  woman  who  came  full-armed  be- 
tween him  and  the  world,  a  Valkyr  winging  down  to 


Chapter  Twenty-two 

bear  him  away  to  a  heaven  she  would  make  for 
him  herself.  Gentle  as  she  was,  there  must  have 
been  a  Valkyr  in  her  somewhere,  or  she  could  not  at- 
tempt this.  She  swept  in,  not  only  between  him  and 
the  world,  but  between  him  and  the  destroying  de- 
mons his  own  sins  had  raised  to  beset  him.  There, 
I  thought,  was  a  whole  love;  for  there  she  was 
not  only  wife  but  mother  to  him. 

And  I  remembered  the  dream  of  her  I  had  before 
I  ever  saw  her,  on  that  first  night  after  I  came  down 
to  Normandy,  when  Amedee's  talk  of  "  Madame 
d'Armand "  had  brought  her  into  my  thoughts.  I 
remembered  that  I  had  dreamed  of  finding  her  statue, 
but  it  was  veiled  and  I  could  not  uncover  it.  And 
to-night  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  veil  had  lifted, 
and  the  statue  was  a  figure  of  Mercy  in  the  beauti- 
ful likeness  of  Louise  Harman.  Then  Keredec  was 
wrong,  optimist  as  he  was,  since  a  will  such  as 
hers  could  save  him  she  loved,  even  from  his 
own  acts. 

"  And  when  you  come  to  Monticelli's  first  style — 

Miss  Elliott's  voice  rose  a  little,  and  I  caught  the 

sound   of  a  new  thrill  vibrating   in   it — "  you   find 

[323] 


The  'Guest  of  Quesnay 

a  hundred   others   of  his   epoch  doing  it  quite  as 
Well,  not  a  bit  of  a  bit  less  commonplace " 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  and  looking  up,  as  I  had 
fifty  times  in  the  last  twenty  minutes,  I  saw  that  a 
light  shone  from  Keredec's  window. 

"  I  dare  say  they  are  commonplace,"  I  remarked, 
rising.  "  But  now,  if  you  will  permit  me,  I'll  offer 
you  my  escort  back  to  Quesnay." 

I  went  into  my  room,  put  on  my  cap,  lit  a  lantern, 
and  returned  with  it  to  the  veranda.  "  If  you  are 
ready  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  quite,"  she  answered,  and  we  crossed  the 
garden  as  far  as  the  steps. 

Mr.   Percy   signified   his    approval. 

"  Gunna  see  the  little  lady  home,  are  you  ?  "  he 
said  graciously.  "  I  was  thinkin'  it  was  about  time, 
m'self!" 

The  salon  door  of  the  "  Grande  Suite "  opened, 
above  me,  and  at  the  sound,  the  youth  started,  spring- 
ing back  to  see  what  it  portended,  but  I  ran  quickly 
up  the  steps.  Keredec  stood  in  the  doorway,  bare- 
headed and  in  his  shirt-sleeves ;  in  one  hand  he  held 
a  travelling-bag,  which  he  immediately  gave  me, 
Betting  his  other  for  a  second  upon  my  shoulder. 
[324] 


Chapter  Twenty-two 

"  Thank  you,  my  good,  good  friend,"  he  said 
with  an  emotion  in  his  big  voice  which  made  me 
glad  of  what  I  was  doing.  He  went  back  into  the 
room,  closing  the  door,  and  I  descended  the  steps 
as  rapidly  as  I  had  run  up  them.  Without  pausing, 
I  started  for  the  rear  of  the  courtyard,  Miss  Elliott 
accompanying  me. 

The  sentry  had  watched  these  proceedings  open- 
mouthed,  more  mystified  than  alarmed.  "  Luk  here," 
he  said,  "  I  want  t'  know  whut  this  means." 

"  Anything  you  choose  to  think  it  means,"  I 
laughed,  beginning  to  walk  a  little  more  rapidly. 
He  glanced  up  at  the  windows  of  the  "  Grande 
Suite,"  which  were  again  dark,  and  began  to  fol- 
low us  slowly.  "  Whut  you  gut  in  that  grip  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  You  don't  think  we're  carrying  off  Mr.  Har- 
man?" 

"  I  reckon  he's  in  his  room  all  right,"  said  the 
youth  grimly ;  "  unless  he's  flew  out.  But  I  want  t' 
know  what  you  think  y're  doin'?" 

"  Just  now,"  I  replied,  "  I'm  opening  this 
door." 

This  was  a  fact  he  could  not  question.  We  emerged 
[  325  ] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

at  the  foot  of  a  lane  behind  the  inn ;  it  was  long  and 
narrow,  bordered  by  stone  walls,  and  at  the  other 
end  debouched  upon  a  road  which  passed  the  rear  of 
the  Baudry  cottage. 

Miss  Elliott  took  my  arm,  and  we  entered  the 
lane. 

Mr.  Percy  paused  undecidedly.  "  I  want  t'  know 
whut  you  think  y're  doin'  ?  "  he  repeated  angrily, 
calling  after  us. 

"  It's  very  simple,"  I  called  in  turn.  "  Can't  I  do 
an  errand  for  a  friend  ?  Can't  I  even  carry  his  travel- 
ling-bag for  him,  without  going  into  explanations 
to  everybody  I  happen  to  meet?  And,"  I  added, 
permitting  some  anxiety  to  be  marked  in  my  voice, 
"  I  think  you  may  as  well  go  back.  We're  not  going 
far  enough  to  need  a  guard." 

Mr.  Percy  allowed  an  oath  to  escape  him,  and  we 
heard  him  muttering  to  himself.  Then  his  footsteps 
sounded  behind  us. 

"  He's  coming ! "  Miss  Elliott  whispered,  with 
nervous  exultation,  looking  over  her  shoulder.  "  He's 
going  to  follow." 

"  He  was  sure  to,"  said  I. 

We  trudged  briskly  on,  followed  at  some  fifty  paces 
[326] 


Chapter  Twenty-two 

by  the  perturbed  watchman.  Presently  I  heard  my 
companion  utter  a  sigh  so  profound  that  it  was  a 
whispered  moan. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  I  murmured. 

"  Oh,  it's  the  thought  of  Quesnay  and  to-morrow ; 
facing  them  with  this! "  she  quavered.  "  Louise  has 
written  a  letter  for  me  to  give  them,  but  I'll  have 
to  tell  them " 

"  Not  alone,"  I  whispered.  "  I'll  be  there  when 
you  come  down  from  your  room  in  the  morning." 

We  were  embarked  upon  a  singular  adventure, 
not  unattended  by  a  certain  danger ;  we  were  tingling 
with  a  hundred  apprehensions,  occupied  with  the 
vital  necessity  of  drawing  the  little  spy  after  us — 
and  that  was  a  strange  moment  for  a  man  (and  an 
elderly  painter-man  of  no  mark,  at  that!)  to  hear 
himself  called  what  I  was  called  then,  in  a  tremulous 
whisper  close  to  my  ear.  Of  course  she  has  denied 
it  since;  nevertheless,  she  said  it — twice,  for  I  pre- 
tended not  to  hear  her  the  first  time.  I  made  no 
answer,  for  something  in  the  word  she  called  me, 
and  in  her  seeming  to  mean  it,  made  me  choke  up 
so  that  I  could  not  even  whisper ;  but  I  made  up  my 
mind  that,  after  that,  if  this  girl  saw  Mr.  Earl 
[327] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

Percy  on  fr.s  way  back  to  the  inn  before  she  wished 
him  to  go,  it  would  be  because  he  had  killed  me. 

We  were  near  the  end  of  the  lane  when  the  neigh 
of  a  horse  sounded  sonorously  from  the  road  be- 
yond. 

Mr.  Percy  came  running  up  swiftly  and  darted 
by  us. 

"Who's  that?"  he  called  loudly.  "Who's  that  in 
the  cart  yonder?  " 

I  set  my  lantern  on  the  ground  close  to  the 
wall,  and  at  the  same  moment  a  horse  and  cart 
drew  up  on  the  road  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  showing 
against  the  starlight.  It  was  Pere  Baudry's  best 
horse,  a  stout  gray,  that  would  easily  enough  make 
Trouville  by  daylight.  A  woman's  figure  and  a  man's 
(the  latter  that  of  Pere  Baudry  himself)  could  be 
made  out  dimly  on  the  seat  of  the  cart. 

"  Who  is  it,  I  say  ?  "  shouted  our  excited  friend. 
"  What  kind  of  a  game  d'ye  think  y're  puttin'  up 
on  me  here?  " 

He  set  his  hand  on  the  side  of  the  cart  and 
sprang  upon  the  hub  of  the  wheel.  A  glance  at  the 
occupants  satisfied  him. 

"  Mrs.  Harman !  "  he  yelled.  "  Mrs.  Harman !  " 
[328] 


Chapter  Twenty-two 

He  leaped  down  into  the  road.  "  I  knowed  I  was  a  fool 
to  come  away  without  wakin'  up  Rameau.  But  you 
haven't  beat  us  yet !  " 

He  dove  back  into  the  lane,  but  just  inside  its  en- 
trance I  met  him. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Back  to  the  pigeon-house  in  a  hurry.  There's 
devilment  here,  and  I  want  Rameau.  Git  out  o'  my 
way!" 

"  You're  not  going  back,"  said  I. 

i"The  hell  I  ain't!"  said  Mr.  Percy.  "I  give 
ye  two  seconds  t'  git  out  o'  my —  Take  yer  hands 
off  a  me!  " 

I  made  sure  of  my  grip,  not  upon  the  refulgent 
overcoat,  for  I  feared  he  might  slip  out  of  that, 
but  upon  the  collars  of  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  which 
I  clenched  together  in  my  right  hand.  I  knew  that  he 
was  quick,  and  I  suspected  that  he  was  "  scientific," 
but  I  did  it  before  he  had  finished  talking,  and  so 
made  fast,  with  my  mind  and  heart  and  soul  set  upon 
sticking  to  him. 

My  suspicions  as  to  his  "  science "  were  perfer- 
vidly  justified.  "You  long-legged  devil!"  he  yelled, 
and  I  instantly  received  a  series  of  concussions  upon 
[329] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

the  face  and  head  which  put  me  in  supreme  doubt 
of  my  surroundings,  for  I  seemed  to  have  plunged, 
eyes  foremost,  into  the  Milky  Way.  But  I  had  my 
left  arm  round  his  neck,  which  probably  saved  me 
from  a  coup  de  grace,  as  he  was  forced  to  pommel 
me  at  half-length.  Pommel  it  was;  to  use  so  gentle 
a  word  for  what  to  me  was  crash,  bang,  smash, 
battle,  murder,  earthquake  and  tornado.  I  was  con- 
scious of  some  one  screaming,  and  it  seemed  a  con- 
soling part  of  my  delirium  that  the  cheek  of  Miss 
Anne  Elliott  should  be  jammed  tight  against  mine 
through  one  phase  of  the  explosion.  My  arms  were 
wrenched,  my  fingers  tv  isted  and  tortured,  and,  when 
it  was  all  too  clear  to  me  that  I  could  not  possibly 
bear  one  added  iota  of  physical  pain,  the  ingenious 
fiend  began  to  kick  my  shins  and  knees  with  feet  like 
crowbars. 

Conflict  of  any  sort  was  never  my  vocation.  I  had 
not  been  an  accessory-during-the-fact  to  a  fight  since 
I  passed  the  truculent  age  of  fourteen;  and  it  is  a 
marvel  that  I  was  able  to  hang  to  that  dynamic 
bundle  of  trained  muscles — which  defines  Mr.  Earl 
Percy  well  enough — for  more  than  ten  seconds.  Yet 
I  did  hang  to  him,  as  Pere  Baudry  testifies,  for  a 
[330] 


Chapter  Twenty-two 

minute  and  a  half,  which  seems  no  inconsiderable 
lapse  of  time  to  a  person  undergoing  such  experi- 
ences as  were  then  afflicting  me. 

It  appeared  to  me  that  we  were  revolving  in  enor- 
mous circles  in  the  ether,  and  I  had  long  since  given 
my  last  gasp,  when  there  came  a  great  roaring  wind 
in  my  ears  and  a  range  of  mountains  toppled  upon 
us  both;  we  went  to  earth  beneath  it. 

"  Ha !  you  must  create  violence,  then  ?  "  roared 
the  avalanche. 

And  the  voice  was  the  voice  of  Keredec. 

Some  one  pulled  me  from  underneath  my  strug- 
gling antagonist,  and,  the  power  of  sight  in  a  hazy, 
zigzagging  fashion  coming  back  to  me,  I  perceived 
the  figure  of  Miss  Anne  Elliott  recumbent  beside 
me,  her  arms  about  Mr.  Percy's  prostrate  body.  The 
extraordinary  girl  had  fastened  upon  him,  too, 
though  I  had  not  known  it,  and  she  had  gone  to 
ground  with  us;  but  it  is  to  be  said  for  Mr. 
Earl  Percy  that  no  blow  of  his  touched  her,  and 
she  was  not  hurt.  Even  in  the  final  extremities 
of  temper,  he  had  carefully  discriminated  in  my 
favour. 

Mrs.  Harman  was  bending  over  her,  and,  as  the 
[331] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

girl  sprang  up  lightly,  threw  her  arms  about  her. 
For  my  part,  I  rose  more  slowly,  section  by  section, 
wondering  why  I  did  not  fall  apart;  lips,  nose,  and 
cheeks  bleeding,  and  I  had  a  fear  that  I  should  need 
to  be  led  like  a  blind  man,  through  my  eyelids  swell- 
ing shut.  That  was  something  I  earnestly  desired 
should  not  happen ;  but  whether  it  did,  or  did  not — 
or  if  the  heavens  fell! — I  meant  to  walk  back  to 
Quesnay  with  Anne  Elliott  that  night,  and,  mangled, 
broken,  or  half -dead,  presenting  whatever  appearance 
of  the  prize-ring  or  the  abattoir  that  I  might,  I 
intended  to  take  the  same  train  for  Paris  on  the 
morrow  that  she  did. 

For  our  days  together  were  not  at  an  end;  nor 
was  it  hers  nor  my  desire  that  they  should  be. 

It  was  Oliver  Saffren — as  I  like  to  think  of  him 
• — who  helped  me  to  my  feet  and  wiped  my  face 
with  his  handkerchief,  and  when  that  one  was 
ruined,  brought  others  from  his  bag  and  stanched 
the  wounds  gladly  received,  in  the  service  of  his 
wife. 

"  I  will  remember — "  he  said,  and  his  voice  broke. 
"  These  are  the  memories  which  Keredec  says  make 
a  man  good.  I  pray  they  will  help  to  redeem  me." 
[332] 


Chapter  Twenty-two 

And  for  the  last  time  I  heard  the  child  in  him  speak- 
ing :  "  I  ought  to  be  redeemed ;  I  must  be,  don't  you 
think,  for  her  sake?" 

"  Lose  no  time !  "  shouted  Keredec.  "  You  must  be 
gone  if  you  will  reach  that  certain  town  for  the  five- 
o'clock  train  of  the  morning."  This  was  for  the  spy's 
benefit;  it  indicated  Lisieux  and  the  train  to  Paris. 
Mr.  Percy  struggled;  the  professor  knelt  over  him, 
pinioning  his  wrists  in  one  great  hand,  and  holding 
him  easily  to  earth. 

"Ha!  my  friend — "  he  addressed  .his  captive — 
"  you  shall  not  have  cause  to  say  we  do  you  any 
harm;  there  shall  be  no  law,  for  you  are  not  hurt, 
and  you  are  not  going  to  be.  But  here  you  shall  stay 
quiet  for  a  little  while — till  I  say  you  can  go."  As 
he  spoke  he  bound  the  other's  wrists  with  a  short 
rope  which  he  took  from  his  pocket,  performing  the 
same  office  immediately  afterward  for  Mr.  Percy's 
ankles. 

"  I  take  the  count ! "  was  the  sole  remark  of  that 
philosopher.  "  I  can't  go  up  against  no  herd  of  ele- 
phants." 

"  And  now,"  said  the  professor,  rising,  "  good- 
[333] 


The  Guest  of  Quesnay 

bye !  The  sun  shall  rise  gloriously  for  you  to-morrow. 
Come,  it  is  time." 

The  two  women  were  crying  in  each  other's  arms. 
"  Good-bye!  "  sobbed  Anne  Elliott. 

Mrs.  Harman  turned  to  Keredec.  "  Good-bye !  for 
a  little  while." 

He  kissed  her  hand.  "  Dear  lady,  I  shall  come 
within  the  year." 

She  came  to  me,  and  I  took  her  hand,  meaning 
to  kiss  it  as  Keredec  had  done,  but  suddenly  she 
was  closer  and  I  felt  her  lips  upon  my  battered  cheek. 
I  remember  it  now. 

I  wrung  her  husband's  hand,  and  then  he  took  her 
in  his  arms,  lifted  her  to  the  foot-board  of  the  cart, 
and  sprang  up  beside  her. 

"  God  bless  you,  and  good-bye !  "  we  called. 

And  their  voices  came  back  to  us.  "  God  bless  you 
and  good-bye ! " 

They  were  carried  into  the  enveloping  night.  We 
stared  after  them  down  the  road;  watching  the  lan- 
tern on  the  tail-board  of  the  cart  diminish ;  watching 
it  dim  and  dwindle  to  a  point  of  gray; — listening 
until  the  hoof-beats  of  the  heavy  Norman  grew 
[334] 


Chapter  Twenty-two 

fainter  than  the  rustle  of  the  branch  that  rose  above 
the  wall  beside  us.  But  it  is  bad  luck  to  strain  eyes  and 
ears  to  the  very  last  when  friends  are  parting,  be- 
cause that  so  sharpens  the  loneliness ;  and  before  the 
cart  went  quite  beyond  our  ken,  two  of  us  set  out 
upon  the  longest  way  to  Quesnay. 


THE    END 


[335] 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE    PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


A    000130002    9 


